The Fury of the Wind
by Windimere Wellen
Summary: Things go wrong during a routine interview, and the tables are turned on Don and Charlie, forcing them into a bit of role reversal and both brothers have to deal with the outcome...and it's finally finished.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 1 of ?

Disclaimer: Please be nice to me  This is my first Numb3rs fic, I'm a fairly recent fan, and I'm not super good at math, so be gentle. This may be a little AU because of my lack of complete knowledge of the show cannon. Later on I'm going to have a pairing that not everyone will like I'm sure, but that's not happening quite yet. I don't own Numb3rs, so don't sue me.

Hope you like it – let me know.

Lady Winter

"All I'm saying is that I think that this couldn't have been remotely done," Charlie was saying, his curly hair blowing in the air that was gushing through the barely open window of Don's SUV.

Megan Reeves was grinning in the passenger seat as she glanced at the backseat to see Charlie's animated face. The professor was waving his hands in the air, trying to explain to the two FBI agents in the car why he thought that the recent trouble that California Mutual had been having dealing with a breach in financial information – very private and very expensive financial information, including hundreds of high profile checking accounts, hadn't been done from outside the bank.

"Charlie, just yesterday you were telling me that there was no way that anyone could get away with doing this inside one of Cal Mutual's branches," the voice was exasperated, and Don didn't like the sound as it came out of his mouth. He hated being exasperated with Charlie. He hated fighting with Charlie. He hated feeling like he and Charlie were always at odds. But now was not the time to focus on his self-loathing, or the problems that he and Charlie still had sometimes. Now was the time to solve a Federal crime. A Federal crime because the accounts that had been breached belonged to numerous government officials and numerous government contractors.

"I went back over this data with Amita, and considering the algorithms and the security measures in the computer system, I don't think that this could have been done on the outside…" Charlie kept going, and Don kept listening, but some of what the mathematician was saying was drowned out as Don turned a corner, bringing the SUV to a stop.

Megan smiled reassuringly at Don as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, and Don smiled back at her, relieved to know that he was predictably amusing. Don gave her another small smile, then opened the door of the SUV and stepped into the warm LA sun. A stiff breeze ruffled his short dark hair and tugged at his blue FBI jacket with the yellow letters on the back. Just under the jacket was the standard white button down dress shirt, the black non-descript tie, and over that was the distinctive gray of a flack jacket.

For a moment, Don wondered if he should take it off. He and Megan had been called to a scene earlier in the day – a joint task force with the ATF, and neither had had a chance to change, though Megan had lost her vest somewhere along the way, whether it was back at the office or on the way to pick up Charlie from CalSci, Don wasn't sure. Charlie's constant voice brought him back to reality and he forgot the vest.

"Ok Charlie," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face as he realized that Charlie hadn't stopped talking for the last twenty minutes. "I promise I believe you. Megan and I actually thought that this couldn't be done from outside."

"Which means we're probably dealing with an inside job," Megan pointed out, touching Charlie's arm gently. It was a warning that he needed to be careful.

Charlie stopped moving for a moment and Don caught his younger brother's dark eyes on him. "Is that why you're wearing your vest?" he asked quietly and for a moment, Don couldn't hear anything else. Not the traffic, not the construction going on down the street, not the flock of pigeons that were in front of the fountain near the entrance for the main Cal Mutual branch. All he could hear was the strain of worry in Charlie's voice.

"No," Don said, forcing himself to put laughter in his voice, and he smiled genuinely at Charlie. "No, I just forgot to take it off. Don't worry about it." Don looked at Charlie, knowing he shouldn't be surprised that Charlie had spotted his vest, but he still was. "We're just going in to talk to the head of their tech department. If this were dangerous, you can bet I wouldn't be bringing you," Don said with a small smile.

"Yeah, yeah," Charlie said with irritation, then Don watched as his younger brother appraised him, and under Charlie's scrutiny, Don zipped up his jacket, hiding the vest and the shoulder holster he was wearing. Don pushed up his shades, and motioned for them to move.

"Come on, you can ask all of the questions you want when we get inside," Don said, and turned away from his companions, one hand unconsciously beeping the SUV. Megan was beside him in a moment and Charlie was trailing behind them. They walked past the fountain, and the pigeons took to the air in a flutter. Soon enough they were pushing through the double doors, only to be met by two security guards.

Megan and Don instantly flashed their FBI badges and Charlie fumbled for a moment, looking for his ID. Don and Megan turned and Don fought down the look of irritation as Charlie searched through his brown sport coat, over the rumpled white polo and a pair of trendy jeans that their father had bought him last Christmas that were permanently stiff with chalk dust.

Finally, what seemed like ages later, Charlie produced his FBI Consultant badge and the security guards waved them in. Once out of the lobby and into the actual bank itself, Don removed his sunglasses, burying them in his short hair on top of his head.

The inside of the bank was cold and austere. The gray marble floor and steel pillars gave the place a look of formal elegance and class. There were mahogany desks where bank agents did their business. It wasn't a typical bank – it was a bank for the wealthy, where most of the money was routed to Cayman Island accounts.

A man in his late fifties, with dark eyes, thinning gray hair, and an expensive suit met them in the middle of the room. He seemed to be waiting for them, and Don assumed this was the man that his office had been dealing with.

"I'm Todd Skellet," he said, offering Don his hand.

"Special Agent Don Eppes," Don replied, shaking the man's hand firmly, and met his eyes, and for a brief moment, didn't like what he saw there, but then the man smiled, and Don shook his thoughts loose, and motioned to Megan. "This is Agent Reeves, and this is Dr. Eppes, our consultant. He'll be the one looking at your system to determine the origin of the attacks."

"Dr. Eppes?" Skellet responded with a strange smile, making all of Don's FBI training swirl unconsciously in his stomach. Something felt wrong, and Don looked around, but it was business as usual in Cal Mutual. Several well dressed customers were sitting a few feet away at one of the desks, speaking quietly and happily with one of the bank agents. Another couple was just ten feet from Don's left, also speaking quite contentedly with another bank representative. Don gave Megan a sidelong glance, but she didn't seem disturbed at all. Don fought down his feeling of uneasiness, checking it off to spending too much time doing his job.

"Agent Eppes is my brother," Charlie was saying, obviously picking up on the fact that Skellet had been referencing their last name. "I've been doing a lot of thinking about these incidents of the breaches in your system. Could I take a look at your main terminal?" Charlie asked, and Don wasn't surprised his brother had jumped straight to the numbers. "I'm not exactly a computer expert, but I do know that your algorithms had to have been compromised…" Charlie kept talking, but Don tuned him out as Skellet wordlessly led them to the side of the room where there was a computer station.

"This terminal provides access to the mainframe," Skellet was telling Charlie, but he seemed hardly interested in Charlie's stream of information regarding just how hard it was to break into an encrypted system like Cal Mutual's – the reason being that most of the systems were government designed.

Don idly added in his mind that those systems were designed by people like his genius brother.

Charlie kept talking, as he hurried into the main frame, fingers moving nearly faster than the computer could handle. Don scanned the room again, noting that one couple was leaving, while the other had moved to another desk, and the agent that was helping them seemed to be on a search for some paperwork. The two security guards were checking the first couple out, looking overly happy about it.

Don's mind turned subconsciously, calculating the closest exit and what kind of variables the marble floor would make in a gun fight. He grinned. He and Charlie weren't that different after all.

Don turned back to the conversation at hand when it was clear that Charlie had found at least part of what he was looking for.

"See, this is what I mean. There is no evidence that this was hacked into, and there's no way to have gotten to it from anywhere but here. But, there's another small mystery. This information was being compiled for a massive out source, but it looks like whoever was doing this ran into this," Charlie waved at the computer screen and Don didn't bother trying to glance over the terminal at him. "There's an encryption they couldn't get through."

Don looked up sharply. He, Megan, David and Colby and the tech crew had been spending the last week trying to figure out why there hadn't actually been any stolen information, just several huge breaches in security.

He realized a moment later that something was wrong. Skellet didn't look worried that Charlie had just told him that this was an inside job. Instead he was nodding, and moving in a way that Don had learned to recognize and dread. He was reaching for a gun.

"You're right Dr. Eppes. You're very right."

Don hardly registered the words as he reached for his own gun, his right hand snaking inside his partially zipped jacket to find purchase on the hilt of one of his pistols. His other hand closed around the cell phone in his pocket and he flipped it open, a practiced hand dialing the emergency number that was programmed in his phone for situations just like this. Megan was also moving, and Don felt like everything had slowed down to a crawl.

Slow motion was the best way to describe it. Don could see Skellet raising his gun and he knew the trajectory would be Charlie's head. From the corner of his vision, he saw Megan pulling her own gun and turn to face Skellet, ready to take a bullet for his younger brother. Don would have done the same, even as he heard the emergency dispatcher asking him for the nature of his emergency, even as he was yelling their location and tugging the gun free of its holster and past the zipper which caught his hand sharply, but he knew that Skellet was not in this alone. He heard the sound of running feet on marble.

Don turned away from Skellet to face his attacker, and was bowled over by one of the security guards. Don hit the floor hard, the security guard on top of him, one vice like hand wrapped around the gun Don was holding as they fought for it. Don's cell phone skittered across the marble, sliding under one of the desks, disconnecting from the dispatcher in an instant.

Don struggled to keep his gun, desperate to reach Charlie. Desperate to stop Skellet from hurting him. That desperation was enough for him to turn the security guard off of him and Don rolled onto his side and began to push himself up when the other security guard appeared out of nowhere and caught Don hard in the ribs with a vicious kick. Another foot smashed down on his wrist, forcing him to release the gun in his hand. He let out a strangled cry of pain, which hurt because his chest ached.

Gasping for air, Don's worry for Charlie forced him to try to get up again, but the security guard, kicked him again and the other one joined him from the other side. Don pushed himself up, swinging one leg out and caught one of the guards hard in the shin, causing him to stumble back.

The first one was still there though and while Don was distracted, he kicked again, this time a lot harder. Despite the flak vest, Don heard and felt the disgusting reality of snapping ribs. He curled in on himself to keep himself from throwing up and one of the guards bent to pick up the gun and a navy blue high heel came into view. Don made one last attempt, lunging for where the gun was, just centimeters from where the guard was reaching, but one heavily booted foot rolled him onto his back and pressed down on the broken ribs, and tears came to Don's eyes.

"Just stay where you are Agent Eppes," a cold and calculating voice told him and Don found himself looking up into the eyes of the woman who had just moments before been sitting as a customer not ten feet from where they were. She was thin and tall, with a hawk-like face, blond hair tied back severely and her blue eyes were cold. Now she was pointing Don's own service revolver down at him.

Don wiggled a little under the boot and was rewarded with a shooting pain up and down his abs, but he turned his head, trying to see Charlie or Megan, one ear resting against the cold marble.

"Charlie?" he called out hesitantly and caught his breath when the woman put one heel over his throat and pressed a little. The boot on his chest increased its pressure.

Don couldn't have cared less at that moment if she choked all of the breath out of him when he heard Charlie's voice.

"Don't! Leave him alone, please!" Charlie's voice was scared and desperate, the same sound that Don had heard in the garage when he'd told Charlie that their mother was gone. Don sagged back against the cold stones, and felt a little pressure released from his throat and two hands searched every inch of his body, removing the other gun on the other side of his holster.

"Get his handcuffs," the woman said slowly. "You have the woman?" she asked a moment later, and Don realized much to his chagrin that he had forgotten about Megan. He had forgotten that he was an FBI agent. For a moment he had only been Charlie's brother.

"She's a wild cat," came a pleased voice. "But I have her." Don forced his head a little further, to see the man that had been sitting with the woman, also posing as a customer, was holding Megan, one hand twisted behind her back in a painful looking manner.

"Megan?" Don managed to squeak out, sorry he'd shown such weakness, but needing to know she was fine.

"I'm fine Don," and her voice told him that it was not herself she was worried about, but him. Don himself was a little worried. His ribs felt like they were on fire and it hurt to breathe, something that had nothing to do with the high heel digging into his throat.

"Don't worry about your agent or your brother," the woman said slowly as she looked down at Don. "You should be worried about yourself," she said cryptically, then removed her high heel, and Don knew their only chance out of a hostage situation would be to act then and there. He waited on the floor for a moment, then as one of the guards moved down to grab the front of his jacket, blocking the woman's aim, he forced his body to move.

Don came up off the floor faster than anyone had expected and he kicked high, smashing the gun out of the first security guard's hand, breaking most of the bones and catching him completely by surprise. Adrenaline shoved its way through Don's veins, fighting the graying edges of his vision, as he turned on the second guard.

The woman seemed shocked at first that Don had come up so fast, but then she raised the gun – Don's own gun – and fired. Don knew that he should have seen it coming, but he was unprepared and the bullet caught him hard, spinning him around, and Don dropped to the floor, his head bouncing unceremoniously off the marble and all he could hear was Charlie screaming his name.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 2 of ?

Disclaimer: Numb3rs doesn't belong to me. Please no flames, this is my first go at Numb3rs and I'm not good at math!

Notes: Thanks for all of your reviews! I'm hoping you like this chapter as much as the first one. Let me know!

Lady Winter

* * *

Charlie jerked in Skellet's grasp, hardly noticing the gun pressing into his ribs as he watched Don fall to the floor. He imagined he heard a sickening thump when Don's head bounced off the marble. For a moment, he forgot to breathe then his mind kicked in, his brain calculating that the force of the fall was not enough to break Don's skull. It also reminded him that Don was wearing his flak jacket.

"Don!" Charlie realized he was still screaming his brother's name and slowly he forced himself to stop, straining to see exactly where the bullet had gone.

"Charlie! Charlie!" he realized that Megan was calling his name and he forced his gaze from Don's still form to Megan. "He's fine," she told him when she realized she had his gaze. Charlie didn't respond, and swung his eyes back towards Don, only to find the woman in the blue business suite bending over his inert brother.

She was laughing. "Agent Eppes was a good little FBI agent. He was wearing his vest." She had one finger hooked through the hole in Don's jacket and she laughed again, something that sounded strange in regard to her cold demeanor.

Charlie felt a chill sensation slide down his spine as he watched her unzip Don's jacket. She turned Don on his side to pull it off, and it took a good two minutes before she had him free of it, leaving the unconscious FBI agent in his flak vest and white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The jacket lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. She pressed gently at the hole in the fabric over the Kevlar vest, just over one of the ribs that had been broken.

"Cuff him to that pole," she said casually, standing gracefully and stepping away from Don, motioning to one of the stainless steel poles a few feet from where Megan was. Charlie thought Megan looked like she might kill whoever she could get her hands on first.

The first security guard, the one with darker hair, was still holding his hand which Don had effectively broken. He didn't move to help his companion, the shorter guard with nearly blond hair, as he dragged Don over to the pole. With no gentleness whatsoever, he pulled Don's arms around his back, around the pole, where he used Don's own handcuffs to tightly cuff the agent's hands. He gave them an extra squeeze, relishing the idea that it would later give Don pain.

Charlie watched, trying to swallow his fear, but he couldn't. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He was simply supposed to be consulting on one of Don's cases. He was supposed to confirm Don's fear that this was an inside job. The bank manager was supposed to thank them, and the FBI was supposed to pat him on the back and Don was supposed to arrest the bad guys and they should be headed home to put up their feet, have dinner with their father, and maybe catch the end of whatever baseball game was on ESPN.

Instead, Charlie had been thrust in to a nightmare. The gun digging into his ribs reminded him that he should be paying more attention, but it was hard to take his eyes off Don, whose chin was now resting on his chest. Why had Don lost consciousness? Had Charlie really heard that man break Don's ribs?

Charlie briefly tried to quantify an answer, but was jerked back to reality as Megan began to struggle. Her captor was physically dragging her over to a pole opposite of Don's, nearly fifteen feet apart. Charlie momentarily started to figure out the exact distance by using simple math, but stopped short when she too was handcuffed to the pole with her own cuffs. That simply left him as the only one free and he realized suddenly that it was quite possible he was expendable.

It was also quite possible these people were simply after Don and the FBI. But the possibility of both of those options were slim. Charlie knew with a sinking feeling that this wasn't about Don or the FBI.

"Dr. Eppes, are you still with me?" Skellet asked slowly, and for the first time, Charlie realized he sounded worried. No wonder, because Charlie had simply frozen in his spot when Skellet wouldn't let him around the computer station to get to Don. Wide brown eyes swept back and forth between Don, who was still unconscious, and Megan who was trying to wordlessly communicate to Charlie not to panic. "Dr. Eppes?" Skellet tried again.

The woman was watching him, and then she strode forward, her heels clicking on the floor as the man that had been posing as her bank agent appeared from one of the back rooms, carrying a roll of duct tape, which he handed to the man who Charlie dubbed as "Suit." "Suit" took the tape and unceremoniously ripped off a piece and pressed it against Megan's mouth to keep her quiet.

"Don't," Charlie said suddenly, and the woman laughed, a cruel sound, just like before when she'd been leaning over Don. Leaning over his unconscious big brother.

"Don't do what? Come any closer? Or keep your pretty agent friend quiet?"

"Don't touch her again," he snapped, surprised at how much he sounded like Don.

"That's all going to depend on you Dr. Eppes."

Charlie watched her carefully as she said this and he knew what she wanted. She wanted him to do what Skellet had not been able to – break the final encryption – get past the well formed algorithms to release the information that she wanted to steal.

He opened his mouth to respond to her, but didn't get the chance because her attention was drawn by Don's soft groan. Charlie's heart beat against his chest when he realized Don was coming around. Slowly, and apparently with great effort, Don lifted his head off of his chest, and shook his head a little, trying to clear his vision.

"Don!" Charlie called, hurriedly, and winced when Skellet pulled back again on his arm, where he had a vice like grip. Don was blinking furiously, trying to get a hold of himself, but apparently Charlie's voice grounded him because Don forced his head up fully and met his brother's frightened gaze.

"M…. M'okay, Charlie," he managed, but his voice sounded rough. The woman made her way over to Don, where she crouched in front of the FBI agent. Don stared back at her defiantly and Charlie wished he looked as unfazed as his brother did.

"I'm glad you're awake Agent Eppes. I want you to hear this as well," she said, and though she didn't move, she turned her gaze back to Charlie. Charlie almost missed it because he was caught up watching Don test the fact that he was cuffed, muscles flexing under the soft fabric of his shirt. Charlie didn't miss his brother wince, and he didn't miss the rapid rise and fall of Don's chest – his brother was having a hard time breathing, his respiration increased because of the shorter breaths he was taking.

"You want me to finish what you started," Charlie said slowly, feeling like he was already doing her dirty work.

"Yes, that's exactly right. I need someone with more knowledge about these encrypted systems. An FBI consultant was guaranteed to get the job done, though I'm impressed at how easy this has become. You've done all the hard work for me all ready."

"What kind of hard work?" Charlie asked, confused, but he could see the rising panic in Don's eyes, something only he would recognize and he knew that Don had already figured out what she was talking about. But for all of his genius, Charlie was still in the dark.

"The leverage," she said, then turned back to Don, tracing one thin, pale finger from Don's hairline, down his jaw, under his chin, until it came to rest in the hollow of his throat. Charlie felt his world spin for a moment and thought for sure he was going to throw up.

It only took that one instant to know what she meant. It only took that one instant to suddenly understand why Don had argued with him so often about what cases he didn't want Charlie involved in. Why Don hadn't wanted Charlie in danger. Why Don hadn't wanted Charlie to be used against him.

Now the tables were turned. Now Don was going to be used against him.

"No Charlie," Don was already saying, shaking his head, trying to make her move her finger. "Don't you dare." His tone was angry, but Charlie knew that Don wasn't angry at him. He recognized Don's tones of voice better than anyone except his father. Don wasn't angry at him. Don wasn't even angry at the woman who was still touching his skin. He was angry at himself for letting this happen, and that made Charlie angry.

Charlie opened his mouth to respond, but was again cut off. Not by Don this time, but by the ringing of Don's cell phone, which lit up the dark shadows under the desk where it had slid during the fight.

The woman frowned and Don smiled. Skellet pulled Charlie back a few inches, and the man that had brought "Suit" the duct tape moved to retrieve the black phone from under the desk.

"He had his hand in his pocket earlier," 'Broken Hand' said in irritation, and comprehension flashed across the woman's face, and she turned suddenly and struck Don across the face, drawing blood as her ring raked his left cheek. It was clear she was replaying the fight in her mind and Charlie was too, remembering the gun in his face and his brother yelling the address of their location, seemingly into thin air. The smile never left Don's face and Charlie shivered a little. That part of the altercation had obviously been forgotten until now.

"Who did you call?" she demanded, pushing back a stray strand of blond hair that had escaped her tight, low pony tail.

"The FBI knows we're in trouble," he told her simply. It was only seconds after the words had left Don's mouth that the identical trill of another cell phone filled the air. The source was the phone in the pocket of the tan jacket Megan wore over her green sweater.

She and Don made eye contact and Don smiled just a little at her. The woman was on her feet now and she searched through Megan's pockets until she found the one that held the phone. She compared the two numbers and then hurled both phones at the far wall. Megan's spiraled into a group of plants that adorned the wall near the windows and Don's shattered into pieces as it struck austere concrete.

"We'll have to up our time table," she said slowly, regaining her composure, speaking mostly to Skellet. He nodded and shoved Charlie towards the computer again.

"Finish breaking the algorithm," he demanded. Charlie stared at him blankly, then looked to Don. Don was his rock – Don had always been there to help him do something he didn't want to do. And this, he didn't want to do. He didn't want to help

these criminals.

"You'll do it or I'll kill your brother Dr. Eppes," the woman said fiercely, glaring at Charlie.

"No Charlie, don't you dare help her." If the situation wasn't so dire, Charlie might have laughed. His brother was always arguing. Always.

"Shut up Agent Eppes, or I'll silence you," the woman promised him, then turned back to Charlie.

"Dr. Eppes," here she paused, her voice growing a little warmer. "Charlie, listen to me. You don't want to be responsible for your brother's death, do you? How will you explain to your parents that it was your fault your older brother is dead? He's your hero, right?" This took Charlie by surprise. It was true, but he'd certainly never said it out loud. Especially not to Don. "How can you be responsible for killing your own hero? I can see the way you look at him, he's your world, don't ruin that. If you do this, you'll both walk out of here alive."

"Charlie, do not listen to her. She's going to kill us anyway. You cannot let her get those files. You and I both know what she could do with them. You cannot do this. Are you listening to me? You can't."

"Shut up, Eppes," she nearly screamed, her blue eyes flashing dangerously, and Charlie wanted to curl up into a ball and die. He knew what Don was saying was true, but how could he let his brother die? "It's just a few files Charlie. We're just taking some money. That's all."

"Charlie, this is a matter of national security. You saw whose files and accounts were on those lists, you cannot do this!" Don insisted. The woman turned abruptly and Charlie flinched when the gun went off again.

Charlie was still staring at Don, who had closed his eyes when the gun went off. For a moment, Charlie simply thought Don was dead. He gaped at his brother and tried not to faint when Don's eyes came open slowly, pain glossing them over.

Swallowing hard, Charlie forced his eyes off of Don's face, trailing down over his neck and throat until the top of Don's vest was visible. There, near Don's upper left shoulder, the cloth was still smoking from the heat of the bullet, but it was safely nestled in the Kevlar over Don's heart. Vaguely, Charlie could hear Don gasping for breath.

"What's it going to be Charlie? The encryption? Or your brother's life?"


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 3 of ?

Disclaimer: Numb3rs doesn't belong to me…

Notes: Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed. You guys have been amazing and I'm posting again today thanks to your encouragement. I know I'm going to have to slow down this weekend because of work and family engagements, but I'll do my best to stay on track. Thanks again for reviewing! Let me know what you think!

Lady Winter

* * *

Don struggled to breathe. He felt like someone had punched him with a concrete brick right over his heart and his pectoral muscles ached underneath the kevlar vest that had just saved his life. That small fact didn't make it any easier to breathe.

His whole chest was just a mass of pain and his head hurt terribly, making it hard to think. Making it hard to listen to what the woman standing a few feet from him, his gun still in her hand, was saying. Making it hard to remind himself that he had to keep inhaling oxygen, but not too deeply or he simply couldn't breathe at all.

_Come on Eppes, get it together_, his brain screamed at him. Don blinked once or twice, and his eyes found Charlie's, locked on to him, like an anchor in an ocean. _Come on Don. Be strong. Charlie needs you. Focus!_

"Come on Charlie, its not that hard of a decision," the woman said, moving just a little closer to Charlie. Don forced himself to blink again and not think about the bullet that had been meant for his heart. Instead he focused on their captor. She'd obviously just given Charlie an ultimatum. Even though the blood rushing through his ears had blocked the sound, Don could guess what she had demanded of Charlie – what options she had given him.

Break the encryption code or watch his brother die. Don tugged uselessly at his cuffs as he tried to think, but it didn't help. They were so tight they were cutting off circulation, but that might have been a good thing considering how he'd lost his gun in the first place – a nasty boot stomped over his hand.

"Charlie," he said slowly, testing his voice, and finding it sounded stronger than he expected. "You can't help her." Don knew he was being a little hard – after all, he didn't actually know if he wanted to die to prevent money being stolen from people who would probably never even care if he lived or died, but it wasn't the situation itself – it was the concept.

The concept that they bad guy shouldn't win. The concept that he didn't want to be used as leverage – as a bargaining tool. Don didn't like not having control and he didn't like being weak. And here he felt like he was both.

There was also the simple reality that since their captors had made no attempt to hide their identities that they weren't likely to let any of them live anyway. If that was the case, Don didn't want to die having given these people what they wanted.

But the situation was unfair. His brother, his little brother Charlie, a sweet and gentle person, was being forced to do something that Don had nightmares about, but in those dreams, the roles were always opposite – Don was having to make a choice about Charlie's life. But now things were different. Now Charlie was the one who had to make the choice.

Charlie was staring at him, but Don could tell he wasn't looking at his face. Charlie's dark eyes were locked onto the depression in the flak jacket where the bullet had disappeared. The woman was talking again, demanding that Charlie make a decision.

When Charlie didn't respond, she turned back towards Don and Don fought back the urge to flinch as she approached, the gun still in her hand.

"It's like this Charlie. You break that encryption, I download the information, and then I walk out of here before your brother's FBI friends get here. This can all happen really quickly. You'll be left here, and you all walk away alive." When Charlie didn't respond, she knelt by Don's side and Don watched Charlie visibly tense. "Or we can do it this way. I'm pretty sure you're FBI agent brother here has some broken ribs." Unceremoniously, she reached out and pressed hard against Don's abs.

Don was unprepared and he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, and he tasted blood in his mouth. There was no hiding his wince of pain or how his breath hitched. There was no way to school his features and pretend like it didn't hurt, because it did.

"Stop!" Charlie cried and Don's heart felt like it had been ripped in half at the pain and fear in Charlie's voice. The woman smiled in satisfaction.

"Eventually, one of those broken bones might find their way through one of his lungs, and we all know what kind of damage that is. We can find out just how long it will take, can't we? You like experiments, don't you Dr. Eppes?" she asked suddenly, standing, emphasizing Charlie's title of doctor.

Charlie stared at her blankly and Don wondered if his brother had simply disappeared into his mathematical world. Wondered if he had withdrawn into P vs. NP. If he simply couldn't handle the stress of watching this woman try to damage his only brother.

The woman seemed to think he was still listening though, because she raised the gun again and pointed it at Don. Don stared at the barrel of his own pistol and thought absently that she was a pretty good shot. She had hit her target – himself – twice already, and Don figured she spent time at some sort of range. If he ever got out of here, he would look into that lead.

"Because we can do an experiment. We can see how many bullets in a flak jacket it takes to force a rib to penetrate a lung." Don could feel his eyes widen. Charlie's mirrored his, and Don knew in an instant that his brother was listening completely.

Don thought Charlie would snap then, and do whatever she asked, but still his brother stood motionless and Don would have given anything – including his life – to get Charlie out of this situation.

Tired of waiting, the woman eased her finger over the trigger and adjusted her aim a little.

"I'll do it," Charlie said suddenly. "Just leave Don alone. I'll do it."

"Charlie, you don't have to," Don said quickly, worried about his brother's sanity. He opened his mouth again, but suddenly the man with the duct tape was there, and he was practically shoving the sticky substance in his mouth in an attempt to shut him up. "Charlie…" Don struggled to speak, to move his head away, but his assailant slammed his head back against the pole hard, causing Don's vision to darken and light to explode behind his eyes and his stomach threatened to empty it's contents.

"Stop! I said I'd help! Stop hurting him!" Charlie was yelling, and Don relaxed a little when he heard the anger in Charlie's voice. At least Charlie hadn't withdrawn and become a meek subservient like he used to when he was a child. Like he used to do when Don lost his temper with his younger brother. Don forced the guilt back, unable to deal with it.

Don forced his eyes back open, fighting the feeling of panic that he felt. He felt utterly helpless and he had lost his last weapon – his voice.

"Ok, relax Charlie," the woman said soothingly. "Just work on the encryption and you're brother's going to be fine." Her voice offered a promise and Charlie seemed to latch on to it and suddenly his fingers were flying over the keyboard.

Don watched him, and Charlie kept looking up, and Don thought he was checking to make sure that Don wasn't too angry with him. Checking to see that Don was still there. Checking to see that Don was still alive.

Don was angry, but not at Charlie – at the woman who was probably scaring Charlie's soul for the rest of his life. This was something, that if they even survived, would haunt Charlie for the rest of his life. If Don took a moment to admit it, he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life as well. So, with great effort, Don kept a vigil with Charlie, meeting his eyes as steadily and supportively as he could when his younger brother would look up.

Don wanted to keep Charlie as calm as possible, so he forced himself to regulate his breathing. It wasn't easy. His chest hurt so badly that he wanted to breathe as quickly and as shallowly as possible, but he knew that it would frighten Charlie to see him that way, so he forced himself to take even breathes and make them as deep as possible.

As the time slowly passed, Charlie started looking up less often and Don found he could instead look to Megan. Megan had been his partner since Terry had left and she was an amazing agent and a good profiler. Don knew that he had shut her out in this situation and slowly, he let himself slip away from being a brother and back into being an FBI agent. It would probably be the only thing that would save them, so he looked to Megan for help.

She'd been watching the entire situation and Don knew that by now she'd have made an assessment of all of the perpetrators. Slowly, so as not to draw any attention to himself, he moved his head ever so slightly to look at her.

Megan had been waiting for him apparently, because she smiled in understanding when they finally made eye contact. Slowly she guided him with her eyes, first to the two guards. The look in her eyes confirmed what Don thought – that they were simply the hired help. They didn't look as well put together as the other four. They were simply the brute force. They both lounged by the door of the bank where Don noted a 'CLOSED' sign had been hung in the main doors.

Megan next guided Don's eyes to the man standing next to her, the man in the suit that had been posing as the other customer with the woman. Megan's gaze flickered to the woman and Don gave her a slight nod. It was clear they were partners in crime, but the woman was clearly the leader.

Don didn't need Megan to tell him the Skellet was obviously the inside man. The only mystery was the man who had apparently been the bank agent. Don had decided from the way he moved around the bank that he too seemed fairly familiar and he wondered if there were two inside men.

Focusing back on Megan, he realized she was casually looking at where the woman had thrown their cell phones. Don knew what she was thinking. The FBI had gotten the emergency call and had tried both agent's phones. When neither Don nor Megan had answered they would have followed protocol and assumed that both agents were in trouble. Hopefully they would be mobilizing to figure out what had happened. Don's cell phone was shattered, but Megan's had landed in the decorative shrubs which meant the phone might still be intact. Which meant it might still be transmitting her GPS signal, which would mean that the FBI would know that she had not left the bank.

Don relished the idea of his team coming to their rescue, but at the same time, he dreaded a hostage situation. He dreaded Charlie being involved. He and Megan were trained for things like this, and although they weren't used to it, it was always a chance in their job. Now he had dragged Charlie into a horrible situation.

When Megan looked at him curiously, he knew she was wondering about his injuries, and Don blinked three times, hoping she would understand that he thought that there were at least three broken ribs. He hadn't wanted to think about what the woman had said about his lungs, but he could feel the broken bones pressing in uncomfortably and he knew the reason he's lost consciousness earlier was that the first bullet had struck right over a broken bone.

If the woman tested her 'experiment,' Don knew he was going to be in some trouble.

Don's thoughts and communication were interrupted by Charlie's cell phone ringing. Skellet had taken it, along with Charlie's wallet and ID when he had searched the professor for weapons. The woman, who had been watching Charlie, strode over and took it from Skellet.

"David?" she asked aloud, reading the caller ID on the front of the phone. Don fought back a smile. David was checking on Charlie. Trying to get as much information about the situation as he could. "Who's David?" she demanded of Charlie. Charlie had been startled out of his work by the phone and his eyes darted nervously to Don. The woman didn't miss the action and turned on Don.

"David? One of your FBI agents?" she demanded. Don didn't make any move to confirm or deny her hypothesis, but he knew that it wasn't hard to figure out, especially with Charlie being unable to mask his emotions.

She whirled back at Charlie. "Who is this Dr. Eppes?" she demanded. Charlie stuttered, saying something about maybe it was a student of his, but she didn't buy it. Don wouldn't have bought it either, considering the way Charlie refused to make eye contact with her. Charlie had never been much good at lying. Especially not when the stakes were so high.

She slammed the phone down on the ground, and it broke, though not as extensively as Don's. "I guess it's safe to say the FBI is on the way," she hissed. "How much do you have left to do?"

Charlie opened his mouth and closed it once before he managed to find any words. "It's… I'm having a hard time. I need more time," he managed to say and Don knew that his brother was telling the truth because of he slight quiver in his voice.

"You don't have much time Charlie," she said with a sneer.

"You can't just rush this," he said, snapping back at her with sudden irritation. "This is hard mathematical equations. It takes time."

"I don't have the time Dr. Eppes, so let me put it this way. For every five minutes that it takes you to complete breaking that encryption, I'm going to put one of these bullets in your brother. Whether they end up in the vest and puncture his lung, or end up in his limbs and he bleeds to death, I don't care. But you will hurry," she said, her voice so solid that it was hard to believe anyone could be so callous.

Charlie was staring at her and Megan was glaring, looking angrier that Don had ever seen her. Don was cold. His whole body felt numb. It wasn't a reaction of fear for himself. It was fear for Charlie. His mind also told him that it was shock. His body was going into shock.

"This could take all day!" Charlie practically wailed. "You'll kill him!"

"Then both of you had better hope that you're as smart as you seem to be."


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 4 of?

Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3ers and I'm not particularly rich (actually I'm horribly poor), so don't sue me.

Authors Note: So here is where I say a couple of things – the first is I guess I should tell everyone my story is going to be officially AU from now on, partially because of the pairing I'm going to be using, and partially to cover any cannon mistakes I make, and to give myself a little of author leeway to characterize in the way that I understand the characters. Second, THANK YOU so much for all of the reviews, you guys are awesome! Third is the pairing I'm using, hehe. I'm paring Don and Amita together for this story. The reason is to go along with the theme of the story – roll reversal, but it's really only going to be an undercurrent, not a huge part of the story, and that said, I'm not planning on exploring any Charlie/OC further than brief mention, more of a passing thing, so please don't flame me if you're a Charlie/Amita fan.

All that said, thanks so much for reading! Hope you'll enjoy this chapter…

Happy Memorial Day

Lady Winter

* * *

David Sinclair stared disdainfully at the pile of files sitting on his desk. The stack, about four inches thick, represented hours worth of work. He rubbed one hand over the top of his head, then glanced over to the desk that belonged to his partner.

A similar scene met his eyes, but his partner, Colby Granger, was leaning over one of the said files, scribbling furiously. At least Colby was actually doing work. That was certainly more than David was doing.

David shifted in his chair for the tenth time and glanced up at the clock, which read two pm, only seventeen minutes after the last time he'd looked. Still three hours before he could justify putting the case files away and heading home.

He sighed aloud. It was days like these that made being and FBI agent completely devoid of all glamour.

Colby glanced up at him when he sighed, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"You know, it's usually me who's distracted," he said, as the grin spread across his handsome face. David rolled his eyes, but he knew it was true. Colby was the junior agent, and more often than not, David found himself corralling Colby, especially when it came to the mundane aspects of the job.

"I just don't see why I couldn't have gone with Don and Charlie. These are Megan's case files after all," David muttered, knowing he sounded a bit childish. Colby's grin grew even wider.

"This is like the twighlight zone. It's like we reversed rolls. You're in my body, and I'm in yours," Colby prattled, and David couldn't help but smile a little. "Besides, you already answered your own question an hour ago. Megan is Don's partner. She had to go."

"She should have had to finish her paperwork," David grumbled, shifting again in his chair. He glanced longingly towards Don's desk, and past its severe organization to the extremely nice desk chair that simply screamed 'Special Agent Team Leader Chair Only.' "Think Don would mind if I borrowed his chair?"

"Bet you fifty bucks that if he gets back and sees you sitting in it, he'll just kill you here," Colby said, his eyes already back on the ballistics report he was correcting. "And if he doesn't kill you, you'll just get one of his lectures. And then you'll feel like a bad agent and you'll wonder just how Don makes it all look so easy." There, in the last sentence, David caught a bit of envy and a bit of hero worship. It wasn't the first time he'd heard that tone of voice from Colby.

For that matter, he'd heard that tone of voice from more than a few agents that Don had worked with. The truth behind the longing was that Don was an exceptionally good FBI agent.

He was focused, intelligent, and dedicated. Law enforcement came easy to him. He practically breathed it and it was like he had been born to go out and catch the bad guys. He was cold enough to be able to work through hard cases, but had enough humanity in him to feel guilt when he'd been forced to kill a man, even if he'd had no choice.

Don was well respected in the beaurea. He was a natural and practically everyone liked him. His bosses had always been receptive, they had appreciated his communication skills and he was a natural leader. He had the most closed cases in the history of the LA office, but he was incredibly humble about it, to the point of always feeling like he hadn't done enough.

David reflected that Don's natural ability for the job also had it's downsides. Don was almost too dedicated – during some cases he wouldn't rest and barely slept until the job was done, no matter how long it took. The job had taken him away from his family, though David knew there was more to Don's distance than just the job. The job ruled his life, kept him from pursuing any sort of romantic relationship, and frequently put him at odds with his brother and father.

But it was the job as an FBI agent that had actually significantly closed the gap between Don and his genius mathematician brother, Charlie. David enjoyed working with Don and he enjoyed working with Don and Charlie together. He knew that they both thought they were complete opposites, but David thought they were more similar than they would ever admit. Perhaps they would never see it.

"You're probably right," David grumbled to Colby, who had a point about Don not being fond of sharing the comfy chair.

"I'm always right…" Colby was saying when they were interrupted by a tentative knock on the edge of the cubicle wall. Both agents looked up to find Amita Ramanujan, Charlie's thesis advisee who often assisted Charlie with his consultations for the FBI, standing there, a file in one hand.

David smiled at her and stood up. "Amita, how are you?" he asked her quickly, and Colby and he both caught her eyes dart to Don's empty desk.

"I'm good, how are you?" she asked, her voice sounding a little distracted as she focused her eyes back on David.

"We're just doing some paperwork," Colby interjected, staring at the beautiful young woman with curiosity. "I hope that isn't more you're bringing."

Amita laughed a little, her voice musical in their ears, the smile on her face making her that much prettier. "No, this is actually something to do with a current case that Don… Agent Eppes, I mean, was working on. Charlie left it with me to see I had any more luck. I didn't really…just came to the same conclusion that Charlie did… Uh, is Don, I mean Agent Eppes, here?"

The two FBI agents stared at her as she rambled on and David fought back a smile. He'd noticed that lately Amita had been finding her way to the FBI office more and more lately. At first when she'd helped with cases, it had only been because she'd been around when Don had dropped off a case, or Charlie had occasionally asked for her input. Over the past few months, she had been getting more involved, as much as Charlie would let her. Then, recently, she'd been showing up more often at the office, trailing along on Charlie's shirt tails, or volunteering to drop off information on a whim. And all the while she seemed to gravitate closer and closer to Don.

David was slightly worried about the situation. He knew from watching Charlie, and from a few things Don had said, that Charlie had been interested in Amita for some time. For a while, David had also been sure that Amita had returned the feelings, but they'd been kept from a relationship by CalSci's rules.

However, things had seemed to change close to two months ago when an old friend of Charlie's, a young woman named Olivia, had come to town during a math convention being held downtown. The two of them had attended Princeton together. David had no idea about the particulars of what had happened, but after that, things between Amita and Charlie had seemed to be different.

Charlie seemed to have lost interest and Amita had apparently turned her eye sight on Don. Don had mentioned Olivia once or twice in reference to Charlie, even going so far as to tell the team that she would be in town for the Eppes' annual fourth of July clambake.

David wondered where that left Amita. She didn't seemed fazed by Charlie's lack of interest, and she obviously hadn't told Don that she was nearly stalking him, and even more amusing was the fact that David knew that Don, for all of his agent skills, had not noticed her interest. It was either that or Don was avoiding it – avoiding the complications that the concept would inevitably raise between his and Charlie's sometimes delicate relationship. But, David had seen Don look at Amita, and it certainly wasn't a look of disinterest of neutral admiration. His boss clearly thought something about Amita – but what, David wasn't sure.

"Don's not here," Colby said, obviously confused at her intent to find Don. "Charlie went with him and Megan to go interview the bank manager for the Cal Mutual case. That's what you have there, right?" Colby asked.

Amita looked disappointed. "Yeah. Charlie and I think it's an inside job," she offered. David looked at her sharply.

"What?" he asked.

"Don mentioned that he and Megan thought that too," Colby said slowly. "But they weren't sure."

Amita opened the file, and in a way that Charlie had never mastered, explained to them the first time in non-mathematics why they thought it was an inside job. "You're not worried about them, are you?" Amita asked, suddenly worried. David was about to respond when his phone rang.

"Sinclair," he said swiftly as he answered. Colby and Amita watched him, waiting for the call to be over, but what David was hearing was sure to make the phone call longer. It was the director of operations, and he was relaying a call that the dispatcher had just taken. An emergency call for help from Don. "You're sure?" he asked quietly when the director told him simply that neither Don nor Megan were answering their phones.

"Sinclair, we're going to move on this right away because this screams that something went down wrong, and we have to take into account that there was a civilian involved. Agent Eppes logged that he took a consultant with him to the interview."

"Not just any consultant, sir," David said, swallowing hard, watching both Amita and Colby look at him worriedly, catching the tone of his voice. "The consultant was Charles Eppes sir, Agent Eppes' brother."

"I was afraid of that," the director said with a sigh. "Sinclair, I'm putting you in charge. Be ready to roll in ten. I have a tactical team mobilizing now. You should be on your way as soon as possible. I want those agents and the consultant out safe."

"We'll take care of it sir," David promised and hung up the phone. "Colby, we've gotta roll. Amita…" he said, suddenly realizing she was still there. Her face was white.

"Something's happened, hasn't it? Is… Are they…?" she stuttered.

"We don't know anything," he told her gently. David realized it might be against policy, but Amita was already involved in the case, so he might as well fill her in while he filled Colby in. "Don called into to the emergency dispatcher and all she got from him was a yelled address – the address of the Cal Mutual office they went to, then the line went dead. The dispatcher raised the file and tried to contact both Don and Megan, but neither answered. Don's GPS tracker disappeared a few moments after she tried, but they still have a lock on Megan's. They're still in the bank, but the director figures that something is seriously wrong."

Amita looked ill, but she nodded, and Colby was already moving, his flak vest already on, checking his gun. David scooped up his own vest and turned to Amita.

"Don't worry, we'll get them out of there. You can't tell anyone, but maybe you could…" he trailed off.

"I'll go to the Eppes' house. This could reach the media, right?" she asked numbly, and David nodded, wondering if she'd read his mind. "I'll make sure Alan doesn't watch the TV," she promised. "But… You'll call, won't you?" she was practically begging now.

"As soon as we know anything, we'll let you know," David promised her with as much conviction in his voice as he could. He knew it was a lie. She would only hear from him whenever the situation was over. Until then, she would have to wait like everyone else.

"Let's go," Colby urged, and David could see the strain and worry on his face. They were a close team. They were all friends. And this was hard to swallow. David nodded, squeezed Amita's hand, then hurried past her, leaving her in the nearly empty office.

Colby jogged ahead of them, and when they got downstairs, the tactical team was already waiting and they quickly got underway. David let Colby drive and he pulled out his cell phone, first trying Don's cell, which went straight to voice mail. He figured it had been destroyed. He didn't want to risk the same thing happening to Megan's, especially if it could potentially give them a clue to where the agents were, so he left off calling her. Next he tried Charlie's cell. He figured there might be a chance that if things went south, Charlie had gotten out. He knew Don would do anything to protect his younger brother.

The phone rang and rang and finally went to voicemail, and David's heart sank a little.

While they made the twenty minute drive to the other side of the city, David went through all of the motions numbly, checking his gun to make sure it was loaded, attaching his sleeve radio, checking to make sure his vest was tight. He couldn't believe he was doing this without Don and Megan. He couldn't believe he was doing this for Don and Megan

David swallowed hard. He could only hope there was some mistake. He could only hope this wasn't going to be as bad as he was afraid it was. He could only hope this wasn't about to become a nightmare that would forever haunt him.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 5 of ?

Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs, so don't sue me.

Author's Note: I know I keep saying this, but thank you thank you thank you for all of the reviews. They're amazing and I appreciate them. Sorry about the time it's taken me to post, life gets complicated! As for the injuries that Don is about to receive, I consulted with my mother, who is a trauma nurse, and has been one for twenty two years. She has seen a lot of unpleasant things, including police officers who have taken multiple bullets to bullet proof vests. She tells me that you see many miraculous things in the ER and in trauma, and everything I've written is plausible, though not always common!

* * *

Charlie couldn't remember a time that he had typed so fast. He was sure that he'd typed this fast before, but his mind wouldn't allow him to remember when. All his mind would let him do was process the numbers. Move them around, decode strings of them, put more together, change the function of one or two of them. Anything to get them to open the encryption that mocked him.

All Charlie could think, when his mind would let him, was that this shouldn't seem so hard. It shouldn't seem like such a monumental task. It was just an encryption. He broke them all the time. He'd done it countless times for the FBI, more than halving the time it took the FBI tech squad.

So why was it so hard this time? It was probably because of Don. That seemed so simple. It was probably because some psycho woman was pointing a gun at his beloved brother. Threatening to kill him. Maybe that was why Charlie couldn't focus. Maybe that was why the numbers didn't make sense.

It was a strange feeling. The numbers always made sense. They never left him without answers. They never left him. But now, they seemed to be alluding him. Now, when Charlie needed them the most, he couldn't find the numbers. At least not quickly enough. They were still there. It was just that he couldn't focus on them.

The computer beeped at him in an angry tone for the third time, telling him he'd hit another wall and Charlie forced himself to focus, forced himself not to look at Don any further.

_Five minutes. She's going to shoot Don in five minutes. How much time has passed? Three minutes? Four?_ Charlie didn't know. He'd never been good at keeping track of time. This was even worse. He backtracked through his work. What had he missed? There, in the last line of the secondary part of the encryption. He hadn't filtered out some of the numbers. How had he missed that?

Skellet was standing behind him, gun hovering, but Charlie was oblivious. Megan hadn't taken her eyes off of Don, but Charlie didn't know that either. And Don was just practicing breathing. At least that's what Charlie thought his brother was doing. He imagined that there wasn't much left for Don except to plan an escape that Charlie hoped would come at any moment. Where was the FBI? Why hadn't Don saved them yet?

Charlie knew the thought was unfair, but he couldn't help but think it. Don had always saved him. When he was little and couldn't find the stuffed bear that Don had given him when he'd come home from the hospital, the one he'd slept with every day until he was thirteen and numbers seemed cooler than stuffed animals all of the sudden, Don had found the bear. When mom and dad would argue about Charlie's schooling or argue about how Don was being ignored, Don would take Charlie out to get ice cream, or to the park, anywhere but the house. When they'd been in high school and the older kids had picked on Charlie, Don used to put an end to it, even if he was so discreet Charlie didn't even know it happened. Don had always taken care of Charlie – up until he'd had enough, and had run away – run away to college and then Quantico – away from a life that he had a hard time handling.

Even then though, it was his way of protecting Charlie – protecting Charlie from seeing how much Don had been affected by how Charlie had needed to be raised, protecting Charlie from seeing how hurt and neglected Don sometimes felt, protected Charlie until Don, the confident and self-assured FBI agent, had managed to get himself to a place he finally liked in life.

Don was still doing it – still protecting him. He protected Charlie from his own anger when their mother had passed, by trying his best to understand why Charlie had hid from her and her illness. He had protected Charlie from details of his life that were scary, and he had stopped Charlie from being involved in some of his cases to save him. Don had always taken care of Charlie, even when Charlie didn't want to – didn't need to – be taken care of.

But now, Don wasn't saving him. Now Charlie had to save Don. It wasn't something he was used to. Charlie didn't often think that he needed to be saved. He was often irritated by Don's over protectiveness – especially now, since he was a grown man who had been making his own decisions for some time. He had a hard time just letting Don shield him from what Don judged to be too damaging. But now? All he wished was that Don was protecting him – that Don was saving him from having to save Don.

"Five minutes Charlie," the woman said, giving him just enough time for his heart to skip a beat – enough time to tell her he was done, but he wasn't. She saw it in his eyes, she knew, but still Charlie hoped that her threat had been idle.

It wasn't. The gun came up and she squeezed the trigger without hesitation. Charlie closed his eyes, wondering if he was a coward for being unable to watch the woman shoot his brother.

In the milliseconds that passed, Charlie tried to figure out the trajectory of the bullet from where her image and Don's placement were burned into his mind. His fingers stilled on the keyboard as the gun barked, signaling the release of the bullet. He heard Megan's stifled cry of protest and a painful grunt from Don, and his eyes flew open.

Don's head was tipped back, his throat exposed, straining his neck muscles, and Charlie could see Don's eyes were clenched shut, his face drawn in pain. Desperately, Charlie scanned his brother's body, looking for a blossom of red, but found none. He searched the vest, and the tell tale wisp of smoke formed a skein of thin gray, radiating from the center of the vest.

The woman seemed unconcerned, even as it became clear to Charlie that Don was struggling to breathe. She turned her cold gaze on Charlie. "Clock's ticking Dr. Eppes," she reminded him. Charlie gaped at her. Suddenly, his fingers started moving again, the keys underneath him blurring as he fought back tears. He wanted to watch Don, wanted to know if his brother was all right. Wanted to hear Don's voice. Instead, he had to fight to finish the encryption to save Don. He had to stop this.

Charlie heard the woman's heels click on the stone floor and imagined she was going to check on Don. He chanced one glance, and found her crouching by his brother, feeling for a pulse in his neck, even though Don's eyes were now open, sheeted in pain. His breathing was coming in short gasps, evidence that the bones were pressing hard against his lungs. Don was shivering, a quake so slight that it was hard to notice, but it was a sign of shock as his body rebelled against the abuse it had taken.

"He's still alive Charlie," she was saying, her voice warm again, trying to encouraging him. "And I don't hear any fluid rattling around, so we can say he can handle at least three bullets over the broken ribs. Another three minutes and forty one seconds and we'll see if he can handle four."

"Stop taunting him," 'Suit' suddenly said, walking away from where Megan was straining against her cuffs to see Don better. "You'll distract him and he'll never finish. How long do you think it will take the FBI?" he snapped at her, and Charlie thought he sounded nervous.

"Depends on how far away their office is," she said thoughtfully, then turned back to Don. Charlie almost stopped, wanting to use a few precious seconds to warn her to stay away from his brother, but he couldn't risk it. He had to keep going. Had to keep Don from another bullet. He had to keep the tears out of his eyes.

"Well Agent Eppes? Just how far away is your office?" she asked, and Charlie kept typing, refusing to look up, forcing himself to concentrate on the numbers in front of him. He could hear the soft pulling of tape as the woman pulled away the duct tape over Don's mouth to allow him to speak. "Come on Agent Eppes, how far? How long will it take them?" she asked him again and Charlie's eyes came up, unbidden, the numbers already burned into his mind.

Don was licking his lips, buying himself a little time. She leaned closer to him and Charlie swallowed hard again, watching his brother, noting how much paler he looked. The woman reached out, evidently for his chest and Don shook his head a little to ward her off, and Charlie knew she was threatening Don.

"Twenty minutes," he hissed at her, his voice strained. Charlie winced. Underneath his hands, the computer beeped, but this time it wasn't angry. This time he'd gotten through another layer of the encryption, and he smiled unconsciously.

"Done Dr. Eppes?" Skellet asked and Charlie shook his head negatively.

"No, not yet. But I'm close," he said, almost to himself as the numbers slowly started to congeal into something that made complete sense to him.

"Five minutes is up Dr. Eppes," the woman said, standing up, reaching for the gun she'd tucked into the pocket of her dress suit jacket.

"No!" Charlie protested. "What are you doing? I just told you, I'm close!" She was raising the gun and she turned her head to look at him.

"Your brother just said twenty minutes. It's been almost twelve since your cell phone rang. They could be here any moment," she sneered at him. "So I have to keep you focused. You need an incentive, and it apparently has to be your brother's life."

"Just a few more minutes!" Charlie demanded, but she was already pulling the trigger. This time Don gave an audible cry of pain, and Charlie couldn't handle it. He knew already that the bullet had once again taken Don in the vest, but now Don was literally gasping for breath, his body heaving, trying to free itself from the restraints. Then Don stilled a little, his head dropping down and Charlie thought he was dead.

Not really thinking, Charlie sprung forward, out of Skellet's grasp. He half expected a bullet in the back, but no one fired. The woman looked at him in surprise as he sailed passed her, closing the last two feet between him and Don. Charlie dropped onto his knees, sliding on the marble just a few inches, hands reaching out to grasp Don's head. He knew then that his brother wasn't dead, knew that he had just risked both their lives, but couldn't care.

"Breathe Don, breathe!" he demanded, practically yelling at his brother. He put his hands on the either side of Don's head, nearly cradling it as Don gasped, his eyes tightly squeezed shut. Charlie could feel Don's body spasaming under him and for a moment, he was afraid Don was having some sort of seizure, but slowly, Don was dragging his breathing back under control.

The skin under Charlie's hands was cold to the touch and Don was shivering, and when his dark eyes finally opened, they were unfocused. "Just keep breathing Don."

"You're so stupid Charlie, they might have shot you," Don wheezed out, his voice deadly soft and horribly weak, but Charlie was so happy, he grinned at Don. If Don could be yelling at him, then his brother might just make it out here.

"I don't care," he said, but the adrenaline was fading and Charlie wondered if Don had the same sensations when he participated in raids and busts while he worked. The let down left Charlie shaking a little, and he slowly removed his hands from Don's head.

"Get up Dr. Eppes," the menacing voice of the woman in charge said, and Charlie felt a gun barrel poking into his back. Don mustered what was left of his strength to glare at her, but then his eyes went to Charlie. Charlie caught the funny look that his brother gave him, then watched as Don carefully dragged his eyes to where his discarded FBI jacket lay a few feet away.

It didn't take long for Charlie to realize that Don wanted the jacket. He didn't know why, but he would make sure his brother got it.

"Are you listening to me Dr. Eppes?" the woman growled. Charlie felt a strong grasp on his arm and looked up to see Skellet glaring down at him. "Get back over to that computer, or I'll finish your brother here and now." She was terribly angry, and had Don's gun pointed at Don's head. At this range, even if she hadn't been proficient with a gun, she couldn't have missed.

Charlie was nodding. "Ok, ok," he said, his eyes going from the jacket to where the most recent bullet hole was, a little to the right and up a little, nearly a mirror image to the one on the left, over Don's heart. "I thought you killed him," Charlie said, making sure his voice sounded as pitiful as possible.

There was something in Don's eyes. Something that said his brother had some sort of plan. Something that gave Charlie hope.

Before she could protest, Charlie grabbed Don's jacket, and then, doing his best to remain nonchalant, he laid the jacket over Don's lap, sort of off to the side, so that if Don had a moment where he wasn't being watched, he could get to it, even with his hands cuffed behind his back. Charlie did his best to make it look like he thought Don was cold, not a far stretch since Don was shivering constantly now.

Skellet growled at Charlie's delay, and wrenched Charlie up. Don opened his mouth to protest the rough treatment, but Charlie shot him a look telling him to keep his mouth shut. To Charlie's surprise, Don complied. The jacket was forgotten as both Skellet and the woman forced Charlie back to the computer. It didn't matter to Charlie though. All that mattered was that he'd been able to touch Don, and for all he knew it might have been the last time he would ever have that chance.

"Just finish it Eppes. Next time I'm not aiming for the vest."


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 6 of ?

Disclaimer: Numb3rs doesn't belong to me, but I wish it did.

Author's Note: Thanks again for all the reviews! I have the day off of work, so I'm posting on a weekend for a change! This chapter's a little heavy I think, and I'm not exactly sure where I'm going next, who the next chapter is going to be settled on, but hopefully I'll be posting soon! Let me know what you think, and thanks for being so patient and supportive!

* * *

Don's vision was blurry. It was like the time he'd been playing in the attic and had found the box with his mother's wedding dress and he'd examined it, and since he'd never quite understood the point of a veil, he'd tried her's on, just to see if wearing it would make more sense. It hadn't. And getting caught by his father, who had stood in the door and laughed so hard that Don at first thought he was going to die from lack of oxygen, hadn't helped the situation. This lack of vision was like then – slightly blurry, like someone had put netting over his face.

Don shifted a little, trying to get more comfortable. The small action sent waves of fire shooting up and down his chest, causing bile to rise in his throat and for a few terrifying seconds, he forgot how to breathe. Slowly, the pain ebbed to a constant, that was like someone was pressing red hot pokers into his chest and stomach. His breathing came back as well, slow and ragged. Still, Don detected no gurgling or wet sounds, and although it felt like both his lungs had collapsed, obviously neither one had.

He leaned his head back against the metal pillar, turning it slight to the right, towards Megan, just far enough to avoid the nasty bump that was there when the man with the duct tape had slammed his head back. At least the woman, the woman with his gun, hadn't felt the need to put the tape back, though Don didn't feel up to talking anyway.

Don forced his eyes open when he realized he'd closed them, and met Megan's concerned face. She looked a little scared and Don didn't blame her. The situation they were in wasn't pretty. _Where is back up? What do I pay David for these days?_ Don wondered to himself, then tried to focus. They'd come to the bank in the early afternoon, and technically, the drive should take no more than twenty minutes, but as the afternoon wore on, the traffic in down town LA would be worsening, increasing the transit time from the Federal building to the Cal Mutual branch they were at.

Then, they would have to coordinate whatever they were going to do. Don tried to pause his brain, but couldn't. The Federal Agent inside of him pressed on. Just what would they do? Would his team even be involved? If David had called Charlie, he was obviously aware there was some sort of situation, but the truth was that no one on the outside would know what type of situation it was. Don wasn't sure how he would handle the situation from the outside, except it would probably fall into a full blow hostage situation, which was never pretty. And Don didn't want to be further used as a hostage. This – being used against Charlie – was bad enough.

When his thoughts turned to his brother, Don gingerly moved his head so he could see Charlie.

Charlie was leaned over the console, his mouth moving in silent words as his genius mind took in what was there in front of him. Charlie, it seemed, was oblivious to everything that was going on around him. When Charlie was engrossed in his numbers, the world around him could be ending and he would never know it.

The look on Charlie's face - one of pure focus - and his stance – shoulder's hunched a little, hands always moving, even if they weren't doing anything – were all too familiar to Don. The way Charlie looked right then always had the ability to bring out the most amazing variance of emotions and responses from Don.

It was like a rollercoaster. Sometimes it was anger. Charlie would be so wrapped up in his numbers that he would be completely oblivious to everything else going on around him, which had included their mother's illness and death. Don had been extremely angry at Charlie – angry that his younger brother had retreated into the world of numbers to avoid what was happening to Margaret Eppes. That left Don and Alan to deal with the loss of a wife and mother, to deal with watching her suffer and grow weaker. And Don had been angry, that Charlie had run to his numbers, seemingly abandoning the mother that had sacrificed so much for him. The anger and injustice that Don had felt had only been quelled when he found his brother emotionally broken with his blackboards in the garage.

Sometimes it was irritation and frustration. Charlie had often forgotten to eat while working with his numbers. Charlie had often forgotten promises he had made. Charlie had often forgotten plans he had been involved in. Don could stand in the doorway of Charlie's office, or the doorway of the garage and call Charlie's name repeatedly over and over, but it wouldn't faze the young genius, because he had blocked everything else out. Charlie was so focused that he couldn't let sleeping dogs lie sometimes, and he certainly had a hard time letting go, especially when it revolved around Don's work.

Sometimes it was pure curiosity. Don had always found himself entranced by Charlie's hand snaking over the chalkboards, white powder floating in the air around him. Don was an intelligent person, and had done well in college, and his parents had often discussed that his mediocre grades in high school were a form of rebellion, but Don would never understand math like Charlie did. And sometimes, Don wished he did. Not to be a genius of course, he much preferred the life he'd found. But he did wish that he could better understand Charlie.

And there were times when Charlie's trance brought about huge amounts of awe and pride. There was no questioning that Don and Charlie hadn't been the closest of brothers, and it had been hard for Don to give Charlie praise, or to even want to give Charlie praise. Everyone had always gushed over Charlie, and no one had returned the favor on Don – not for baseball, and barely for Quantico. It had been a hard road that Don had taken, and there had been roadblocks that kept him from telling Charlie just how proud he was. But he was proud. Don Eppes was extremely proud of his younger brother and constantly in awe of Charlie's mind. _If we ever get out of here, I'm going to tell him just how proud I am._

But there, in the present time, Don didn't know what emotion to feel. He only felt huge amounts of guilt and sorrow, directly related to the fact that he had put Charlie in this horrible situation – that he had put Charlie in so much danger.

Don closed his eyes, letting Charlie's form fade to black. _Ok Don, that's enough feeling sorry for yourself. You need to get Charlie and Megan out of here. So stop having a pity party for yourself and your injuries and get to work._

Resolved, Don opened his eyes again, and focused on the jacket that lay half on one thigh, and half on the ground, next to his back, just a short distance from his numb fingers. There, inside the jacket, tucked into one pocket, were the keys to Don's SUV, and on the key ring was a key to the handcuffs that were squeezing all of the blood out of Don's hands.

Very slowly, Don gathered the strength he had, and when the woman had turned her back on him to get closer to Charlie, and the man with the duct tape was talking to the two security guards, and the man with the suit was appraising Megan, he moved his body.

It was only an inch or two that he shifted, but the result was almost more that Don could handle. He had pulled his body to the right, to get his hands just a little closer to the jacket, but the pain that had accompanied the slight movement was unbearable.

Don fought to keep himself from gasping for air, not wanting to alert their captors to the fact that he'd been wiggling around. The task seemed monumental. It was like he could feel all four bullets, pressing through the Kevlar, against his bruised skin, against the grating broken bones.

Don's vision swam and for the fourth of fifth time that day, he felt like he was going to throw up. The only thing that kept him from blacking out was his resolve to get them out of the horrible situation they were in. Attempting to focus on something, he forced his eyes open again, though he didn't remember closing them, only to find Megan looking at him in irritation and worry.

She had clearly seen his antics, and although she had probably guessed at some part of his intent, she seemed unhappy with him. If Don could have seen himself, he might have felt the same way. Don offered her a weak smile and was relieved when she didn't acknowledge him to keep from drawing attention to what he was doing.

Slowly, Don focused on his fingers. He could barely feel them, and they were shaking badly, no doubt from the shock his body was in. Still, he forced his shoulders a bit further back against the pole, allowing his hands to drop all the way to the marble floor. Instead of hitting cold stone, they touched the soft nylon of the jacket. Don smiled in satisfaction, and quickly checked to see if he was still being ignored, which he was.

He risked a glance at Charlie. Charlie was still typing quickly, and it was clear he was still in his groove. Don didn't doubt that another five minutes had passed, but the woman seemed oblivious, as if hypnotized by Charlie's moving fingers. Don could fully understand that sensation, and hoped she would stay confounded by it. He knew that eventually the Kevlar vest would be compromised – after all, the material could only take so much abuse before the fibers gave way. Charlie could probably have given him the statistics that related to the positions of the four bullets, but not now.

Don managed to hook one finger into the sleeve of the jacket, and little by little, he pulled, dropping the material several times because his fingers were so nerveless. Another minute ticked by and finally Don could feel the lump that could only be his keys. The actions felt like they had taken the last of his energy, but Don continued to fumble with jacket, trying to turn it to find the pocket so he could get the keys inside of it.

Finally, he found what he was looking for, and with great effort, he managed to slide his pointer finger through the key ring. Don never thought that something so small would feel so comforting. He was just about to tug the keys loose when Charlie's computer beeped. Don froze, and both he and Megan turned their gaze on Charlie, who was beaming.

"I did it!" Charlie sounded surprised, and hopelessly pleased, and he looked up, finding Don, and smiling, as if to say _I am going to save you after all_.

Skellet pushed Charlie aside roughly and looked down at the screen, and slowly, a smile appeared on his face.

"He did," he acknowledged, and the woman seemed to relax a little.

"Hurry up and download it," she said, still authoritative, but smiling. She grabbed Charlie by the arm and Don felt anger rise inside of him as she touched his brother. She pulled Charlie away, further towards Don and Don noted that Charlie had a funny look on his face.

Don searched his memory, trying to figure out how he knew that look. Then it dawned on him. It was the look that Charlie had when he'd tried to hide the fact that he'd ruined all of Don's piano music by writing numbers on it when they'd been five and ten respectively – not hiding from Don, but from their mother. It was the same look Charlie got when they ever planned a surprise party – the same look that gave it away every time when Charlie had been forced to lie about it. It was the look that signaled that Charlie had done something that he shouldn't have. Don felt sick again, but it wasn't from his injuries. _What have you done Charlie?_

Quickly and with great urgency, Don forced his fingers to keep moving. He knew he was taking a risk. He could only see the guy with the duct tape and the two security guards in his peripheral vision, and there was a good chance they might see him trying to unlock his cuffs, but fear for his brother drove him to take the chance.

"I've got it," Skellet crowed triumphantly, and withdrew a CD from the computer, where he had obviously burned all the stolen information to. The blond woman beamed, then suddenly turned. Don swallowed hard as the gun came up.

He knew what was coming next. Now that they had what they needed, there was no need for any hostages, especially hostages that could identify them.

Don saw a look of horror on Charlie's face, but also a look that betrayed that Charlie knew it had been coming too. The woman had turned her aim on Don again, and Don wondered just how good her aim was and where she was going to shoot. His fingers were so numb that he was having a hard time identifying which key was which – house key, apartment key, SUV key, old apartment key, locker key, gun locker key… He'd never realized how many keys he had and he couldn't believe he was thinking about keys at a time like this.

"Don't!" Charlie said, and although his voice was strained, he wasn't begging, he was ordering. "If you shoot him, or Megan, or me, that information will be useless to you."

The woman, who was still holding onto Charlie's arm, checked herself before pulling the trigger, and everyone, including Don, gaped at Charlie.

"Excuse me?" she demanded.

"I encrypted it," Charlie said sheepishly. "I ordered it to encrypt when it was downloaded, so now I'm in charge, ok?" he said, sounding uncertain, but he reached up to push the barrel of the gun down, away from Don. Don blinked at Charlie, realizing what a huge gamble his brother was taking. He redoubled his efforts with the keys, hoping the one he had singled out was indeed the handcuff key.

"If you shoot my brother, or anyone else, I'll never give you the key. So here's what you're going to do. You're going to walk out of here and leave us, and when a half an hour has passed, you can call my phone and I'll give you the code. It's not hard, I'm sure Mr. Skellet can handle it. But you're not going to kill my brother."

Don had never been more proud of his brother, and he had never been more scared for Charlie in his entire life. It was something he would have done if their rolls had been reversed, but he had to be honest, he wasn't sure if he could risk Charlie's life for it, but in this case, it was either this or be killed anyway.

The woman was gaping at Charlie, but Don's attention was drawn to Megan, who was signaling with her eyes. She had seen something. She slowly dragged her eyes to the big windows that were near where the security guards were standing. Everyone's attention was on Charlie, and that was to their detriment, because through the open blinds that covered the windows, Don could see the rear end of what could only be a FBI tactical team truck, and there, just barely peeking into the window was David. Don smiled. He gave Megan a brief nod, telling her that if she could get David's attention, she should try to tell them that they should come in now.

"You little whelp," the woman was growling, and she had wrapped her fingers around Charlie's neck. "You give me that code now or I'll take your precious brother apart, one bullet at a time."

Charlie's eyes were wide, but he shook his head no. Don felt fear spike inside of him and with great difficulty, forced the small metal key into the lock on the cuffs, knowing that if he'd chosen wrong, there was a good chance he would jam the key in the lock and be stuck.

"Let him go," Don warned her, forcing his voice to be as loud as he could make it, but it was disappointingly rough. She let go of Charlie and turned back towards him, her eyes blazing. Don tensed, his muscles screaming in wild protest, and then, miraculously, the cuffs snapped open. The feeling of horrible pins and needles spread through Don's hands, but he didn't care. He would do whatever it took to protect Charlie.

Just as he was about to taunt the woman, to draw her away from his brother, all hell broke loose. Two gun shots broke the tension in the room as the big glass panes shattered, and the two security guards fell amongst the shattered glass. Instantly, an FBI tactical team was though the shattered windows and everything slowed down for Don.

He could hear another gun shot, and watched as the man standing next to Megan, pulling her gun out of his waistband, was spun around by a well aimed bullet. The man with the duct tape had run for the back offices, and was pursued by a tactical officer. Skellet had ducked down behind the computer terminal. But what caught Don's attention was the woman who had been running the show.

She had turned on Charlie and was bringing Don's gun up. Don forced his body up, the cuffs dangling from one hand. His body was no where ready for the movement, pure instinct drove Don. It was less than five feet to reach his brother, but it seemed much further. He could hear David yelling, watched as the woman was struck in the shoulder, heard his own gun go off in her hands, realized that Charlie hadn't been hit, and then he was there, as she was regaining her balance.

Don gave her a shove, and he knew it was clumsy, so clumsy that it merely pushed her a few feet to the side, and she turned, gun up again and Don knew that he had misjudged his strength, because his legs were giving out, but all that mattered was that he was between the gun and Charlie. David was firing again, and the bullet struck the woman one more time, but too late, as she fired, from just three feet away.

She'd meant to shoot Don in the head, but this time, her aim was off. The bullet smashed through Don's unprotected right shoulder, passing clean through, and hit Charlie, who was reaching out to catch his falling brother, in the upper left arm.

Don thought he heard himself crying 'no' but wasn't sure, as he and Charlie fell together. When they landed in a tangled heap, it was like someone had jammed an ice pick into Don's side and he couldn't breathe, for real this time. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was that there was blood on Charlie's jacket and that Don hadn't been able to stop his brother from being shot.

It was the last thing Don thought about before his world turned to black.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 7 of ?

Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs, so don't sue me…

Author's Note: All of my readers have continued to be amazing. Thank you so much for your support and encouragement. I wasn't sure where I was going at first, but now I'm back on track. I don't have a beta reader per say, but my mother looks over my chapters, though she confesses to not be the best at spelling or grammar, so please forgive any mistakes that get left. I try to make sure they're few and far between. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Lady Winter

* * *

Megan tugged again on the hand cuffs, impatient as Colby was unlocking them, willing him to hurry. It was taking him a terribly long time because he was also talking into his sleeve radio, desperately giving directions to the EMTs that David had asked to be standing by.

All Megan could think was that they were desperately needed. If only Colby would let her lose so she could get over to Don. Not that she was needed there. David was there, his hands pressed tightly against the profusely bleeding gun shot wound in Don's shoulder, while Charlie was holding desperately to his unconscious brother, completely oblivious to his own injury.

Finally Colby released Megan's hands, and she ripped the duct tape off of her mouth, relishing the burn because it meant that for the first time in a while, she could actually do something. She tried to feel something, anything, but inside she was simply numb. She felt almost detached as she looked at the scene before her.

She was vaguely aware that Colby was asking her if she was ok, but she just brushed him off, and made her way to where Don was lying on the ground, cradled in Charlie's arms.

Don was on his side, his eyes closed. His skin was unnaturally white and there was blood pooling on the floor, despite the pressure that David was applying to both the front and the back of Don's shoulder. Charlie was shaking, one hand stroking Don's dark and unruly hair, that if given the chance to grow out, would probably be just as curly and crazy as Charlie's.

David looked up at her, then past her, to see if the EMTs were coming yet, then turned back to her.

"He's not breathing," David said, and Megan didn't like the sound of his voice. It was the sound of someone pushed to the brink of what they could handle. Megan felt the same way inside, but she wasn't able to show that yet.

She was about to respond when suddenly the EMTs were rushing past her. Then they were pushing David out of the way, but it was clear in seconds that Charlie was not going to relinquish his brother so easily.

"Sir… Sir, you have to let him go," one of the EMTs was insisting, while the other was trying to stop the bleeding.

"No, don't touch him," Charlie insisted, in a voice that reminded Megan of a lost child.

"Colby!" Megan called, and in an instant, the junior agent was at her side. "Get Charlie. Be gentle with him though, he's scared."

Colby nodded, and carefully moved to extricate Charlie from the EMT's way.

"Charlie, let go of Don, they have to stop the bleeding and we need to get him to the hospital," Megan said soothingly.

"They're not going to hurt him," Colby told Charlie, as he gently hooked his hands under Charlie's arms. Megan thought Charlie might fight, but he looked up at Colby with recognition in his eyes, and bonelessly let go of Don. There were more EMTs coming in the door and Colby flagged one of them down. "He's been hurt," he explained, motioning to Charlie's arm.

Megan crouched near Don's head as the EMTs began to assess the situation.

"What happened here?" one of them asked.

"He's got four slugs in his vest," Megan said quietly, and the three men looked up at her, and David, who was standing a little out of the way, looked shocked. "And before that they broke some of his ribs. And I think he might have a concussion, and maybe a broken hand." She had spent her idle minutes, when she was a prisoner and could not help her partner, cataloguing his injuries for this moment, so she would be prepared to help.

"He's not breathing, but I've got a pulse," the younger looking of the three EMT's said. Megan read his name plate – Calkins. "I'm going to bag him now." Megan flinched when he produced the blue plastic apparatus and placed it over Don's mouth as they rolled him gently onto his back.

One of the others, whose shiny badge read _Reddens_, was cutting away at Don's shirt as the other EMT – Donovan – was removing the flak vest. Reddens produced a stethoscope and laid it gently under a part of Don's white shirt that had yet to be cut off, that was now stained red.

"Collapsed lung," he said suddenly and urgently. "We've got to move him now. He's got to be bleeding internally and with the arm wound…" he trailed off.

Donovan was already nodding, and he finished cutting away Don's shirt, revealing Don's chest. As soon as Megan saw the damage that had been done, she knew she would never forget it. Don's chest was a myriad of color, ranging from purple and black to a sickly yellow. Angry red marks showed where the bones were broken, pressing up against Don's skin. Megan winced and glanced up to see Charlie staring at his brother's still form, stock still in the grasp of the EMT who was bandaging his arm.

She realized there was more movement when another EMT team came rushing in. Calkins must have been in contact with the nearest hospital because he was reading off Don's heart rate and BP to someone, and explaining the direness of the situation.

There were suddenly sirens and Megan turned to see that an ambulance had been backed up to be as close as possible, and when she turned back, she found that they were putting Don on a stretcher.

"Where are you taking him?" she demanded, catching Reddens' arm as the other EMTs whisked Don towards the waiting ambulance.

"Grace Memorial. We'll take your other gun shot wound there too," he said quickly, then disengaged himself. It took Megan a moment to realize he'd been talking about Charlie and she turned to find Charlie staring forlornly after the gurney that was taking his older brother away.

She thought he was in shock, but suddenly he started forward, pushing away from the EMT who was trying to cut the sleeve off the jacket he was wearing. Megan moved to stop him and Colby was there too.

"Charlie, stay here. You're going in the next ambulance," Colby told him, and Megan smiled at the other agent, glad he was being so patient with Charlie.

"No! I want to ride with him!" Charlie was insisting, but his eyes were unfocused, and Megan knew he was in no shape to be making any decisions, certainly not after what he had been through today. Not after what had happened. Megan swallowed hard, trying to fight back her own tears. The numbness was starting to fade but she fought to keep it in place for the time being.

She could only imagine how Charlie must have been feeling. After all that had happened, he had had to watch his brother take a bullet to protect him. No doubt Charlie was on overload. She couldn't imagine how he hadn't completely shut down yet.

"Charlie, they have to take Don as fast as possible, and they need as much room in the ambulance as they can get. You'll be there with him soon enough, but you have a bullet in your arm, and we have to take care of that first," she said soothingly, though she felt anything but calm.

"He's going to want to know where I am," Charlie said almost desperately.

"Then we'd better get you to the hospital as soon as possible," came a soft and kind voice from behind Charlie. Megan looked up to see it was the EMT that Charlie had pulled away from. She was young – maybe Charlie's age, and she was staring worriedly at the distraught mathematician.

What she said seemed to make sense to Charlie, because he turned to face her.

"We can put you in the ambulance right now Mr…" she trailed off, looking to Colby and Megan for help.

"Charlie," he responded before either of the agents could respond. "Charlie Eppes. And they just took my brother, and, oh God, I didn't save him after all," he stuttered, turning wide frightened eyes on Megan. "I did the calculations. I knew there was a huge probability that it wouldn't work, but I had to try. There was more probability that they would just kill us anyway since we knew who they were. But I couldn't let them kill Don. But it wasn't supposed to happen that way. I didn't figure the rest of it into the equation…" just as quickly as he had started talking, he stopped. "Oh God, why did he do it?" the last part was so quiet, and so full of anguish that Megan barely caught it, but when she did, she wanted to cry.

"Oh Charlie, you know why," she said softly, as the young genius began to sway. Colby caught his good arm. "Charlie, you did great. I know Don is so proud of you," she tried to assure him. Charlie just looked down and the EMT looked pointedly at them, obviously realizing they would be the only ones who could help her.

"Come on Charlie. Let's get you to the hospital," Colby insisted, clearly at a loss for what Charlie had been talking about, but the look he gave Megan told her clearly what he was imagining, and it wasn't pretty.

Charlie didn't fight them, and Megan stayed with him long enough to make sure he got into the ambulance. Colby offered to ride along when she insisted that she was going to stay to make sure David got the scene wrapped up and he promised to call her if he heard anything before she made it to the hospital.

Very quickly, as the ambulance was radioing in, the EMT, whose last name was O'Mara, told Megan that the bullet was still in Charlie's arm, but because it had lost most of its momentum passing through Don's shoulder, it was just under the surface and Charlie would be fine, barring any unforeseen complications.

Megan had felt relieved when she heard that. Even if, God forbid, Don didn't make it, he would be satisfied to know that Charlie would be all right, at least physically. Megan didn't know about mentally.

When the ambulance finally pulled away, it seemed eerily quiet to her, and she wrapped her arms around her shoulders and turned to look at the place that had been her prison for what seemed like forever, but had only been for less than two hours.

There was glass littering the floor, but the bodies of the two security guards had been marked out for the forensic guys. The man that had overpowered her, the one in the suit was also dead, lying in a pool of his own blood not far from the pole that had been Megan's personal prison. In one corner, the man with the duct tape and Skellet were cuffed and being prepared for transport. There in the middle of the room, near Don's blood, which looked strange on its own on the cold marble, was the woman that had done so much damage, but she was clearly dead.

Megan noted that the first shot had taken her in the shoulder, while the other had taken her in the back of the head. David was there, near her body, on the phone, no doubt reporting on the status of the operation.

She approached him as he hung up, and without a word, the two embraced and they hugged for a long time, standing in the middle of chaos.

Finally, he backed away, and she noted that his hands were covered in Don's blood, and there was blood on his shirt, but he had managed not to get it on her.

"Are you all right?" he asked her.

She laughed a little, and she knew it sounded a bit hysterical. "No I'm not. Oh God David…" she said. They both were imagining Don pushing the woman, getting in the way of the bullet – watching him fall, watching him not get back up. Don always got back up. Just not this time.

Megan had hardly been able to believe her eyes when she'd seen him get up. She knew he'd been up to something, even figured out he might be trying to get to his keys. The fact that he had been able to unlock the cuffs at all was amazing, but she couldn't believe it when he'd gotten to his feet. Being a good profiler, and knowing Don so well, she knew she shouldn't have been that surprised. Charlie was his whole life, even if he didn't want to admit it. She was also well aware of what the body was capable of when fueled by adrenaline and fear. It was capable of doing unbelievable acts. Still, it seemed so unbelievable.

She could only hope it hadn't cost Don his life.

"You should go to the hospital and get checked out. I'll finish this up and go talk to Mr. Eppes," here, David blanched and Megan's heart felt like someone was squeezing it.

"No, let me do that. I'll go get him and take him to Grace Memorial, you finish up here and get to the hospital."

"Megan, you just went through a hostage situation," David began to argue, but she seized him by the wrist.

"David, you can't go see Mr. Eppes looking like this," she paused, forcing her breathing under control as she looked down at his hands. "Covered in Don's blood. You can't. Let me go. I promise I'm ok."

David looked down, silently regarding his own hands for a few seconds. "Ok," he finally relented. Megan nodded, then retrieved Don's keys from where they lay on the floor behind the pole where he'd been cuffed. She hoped she was contaminating the scene, but she would need to take Don's SUV. There was part of her that simply didn't care.

Megan still felt fairly numb for the whole twenty five minute ride to the Eppes house, her mind refusing to think of Don – her partner, her boss – her friend. Instead, she tired to imagine how she was going to tell Alan Eppes that both his sons had been in a hostage situation, both had been injured, and Don… Well, Don hadn't really been breathing the last time she'd seen him.

Mentally berating herself for thinking so negatively, she almost missed the turn onto the street where the house Charlie had bought from his father was. She was more than familiar with the location of the house, having been there many times. It was that familiarity, not just with the house, but with Alan Eppes, that would make this so much easier and so much harder.

She pulled into the driveway, surprised to see the car she thought belonged to Amita in the driveway. Megan was halfway up the walk when Alan appeared anxiously in the doorway, frowning when he saw Don's SUV but clearly noticing that Megan had been driving it – not Don. He held open the screen door to her.

"Megan, hello, what a pleasant surprise," he told her, and he sounded genuine. Alan Eppes was too much of a gentleman to demand answers immedielty, like why his son's partner had brought back his son's car, but neither of his sons, who were supposed to have been home already, together.

"Mr. Eppes!" she said as warmly as she could, her voice nearly sticking in her throat. "Can I come in?" she asked.

"Of course, of course," he said quickly, ushering her in, and she didn't miss him glance once more outside to make sure he hadn't missed something.

Once inside, Megan noticed that Alan was indeed not alone. Amita was there, sitting perched on one of the chairs, looking anxious, her face drawn and Megan wondered if the young woman somehow already knew. Megan thought it was strange that Amita was there, especially without either of the boys.

She was aware that Charlie and Amita were no longer even close to thinking about being a couple. Larry had told her that. Apparently, the two had finally settled on friends, which seemed to work better for both of them, and Charlie had shown interest in someone else, though it hadn't turned out to be overly serious. Amita however had recently seemed more interested in talking to Don, but Megan hadn't given it much thought before, and now wasn't the time.

If she'd been paying more attention, she might have noticed the family photo albums on the coffee table, that Alan had clearly been sharing with Amita, and in Amita's hands, clenched tightly, was Don's baby book.

All of this was missed by Megan because of the direness of the situation. When she was far enough into the room, she turned to face Alan, and found him right behind her, staring at her like Don did when he was trying to figure something out that he wasn't being told.

"This isn't just a friendly visit, is it?" Alan asked. "You brought Donnie's care back, but not Donnie. Or Charlie for that matter."

Megan tried to speak, but suddenly her throat was dry. "No, I'm afraid it isn't." Amita was on her feet now, the baby book in one hand. "There was a problem," Megan began, the words coming out haltingly. "A hostage situation," she said slowly, watching Alan's pallor fade visibly. "Both Charlie and Don were injured," she finally managed to get out in a strangled tone. She'd done this before – informed families that their loved ones were hurt or dead, and it was never easy, but this – this seemed impossible.

The look on Alan Eppes' face was enough to break her heart, so she rushed to ease his pain. "Charlie's going to be just fine." It wasn't the complete truth, but it was a start. "They've been taken to Grace Memorial, and I can take you there now," she said, and was about to continue on when Alan reached out to touch her hand.

"And Don?"

"I… I don't know."

Neither Megan nor Alan heard the baby book fall to the carpeted floor when Amita's fingers became nerveless.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 8 of ?

Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs and I'm not making any money off of this!

Author's Note: Wow, you have all been so wonderful with reviews, so thank you again! This was a hard chapter for me to write, but I hope you'll enjoy it! Thank you again!

Lady Winter

* * *

The last time Charlie had been on the inside of an ambulance was when he'd been four. His mother had taken him and Don to a wildlife reserve. It was something that was more their father's style, but their mother was always insisting they should be well rounded, yet another reason that she practically begged Don to continue playing the piano.

The wildlife reserve had been rather exciting for both boys, and away from the house, the pressure that Charlie had sensed, even as a four year old, seemed to recede a little. That was, until Don had mentioned that there were turtle shells on a display table in the visitor's center that kids were allowed to touch. He was already three or four steps ahead of Charlie, and for some reason Charlie had to be the first one to reach the turtle shells, so he'd torn past Don, tripped over his own feet, and went head first into the table and split part of his head open.

He'd had to go to the hospital, via ambulance, and once there he'd needed seven stitches, behind his right ear, a scar that was now covered by his curly dark hair. Though they never talked about it, Charlie knew part of Don had never forgiven him for that day – after all, they'd never touched the turtle shells, Don had to sit by himself in the hospital waiting room for several hours, their day with their mother had been ruined, and their mother had once again turned all her attention to Charlie.

Now Charlie was in an ambulance again, and it was a fear in the back of his mind that Don would never forgive him for this. Don, who had been bleeding and not breathing the last time Charlie had seen him, might never even have the chance to forgive him.

"Oh God," Charlie said, his voice full of anguish even in his own ears.

"Are you in pain?" the EMT sitting facing him asked, obviously mistaking his statement for physical pain. She had been checking his blood pressure.

"No, no…" Charlie said, shaking his head. In fact, Charlie was in physical pain, but he simply didn't realize it. His pain was fully emotional at the moment. Nothing could drag the image of his older brother, lying so still, out of his mind.

"Charlie, are you listening to me?" the EMT was asking again. "My name is Sarah, and I need to know if you're feeling any pain." Charlie just blinked at her. _Who cares if I'm feeling pain? Doesn't anyone realize how much pain Don was in? How much pain he must be in now? _

The idea of Don so fragile was too upsetting. Charlie tried to shake the image from his mind, but couldn't. One minute Don was sitting on the floor, hands cuffed around a pole behind him, and the next, he was on his feet, putting himself between that mad woman and Charlie. _Why Don? Why did you do it? I couldn't even save you, but even hurt, you had to stick your neck out. What's wrong with you?_

"Charlie!" Vaguely Charlie realized that wasn't the EMT talking to him, but Colby. It took Charlie a moment to figure out why he was hearing Colby's voice, then remembered that Colby was there, riding in the ambulance with him. "Charlie!" This time Colby gently seized Charlie's right arm, the one that didn't have a bullet in it.

Charlie turned his gaze on the worried looking FBI agent. "What?" he finally managed, seeing the urgency in Colby's eyes.

"You need to listen to me right now. This EMT needs to help you and you need to answer her questions. Don would be really pissed off at you right now if he could see you being rude to her." Charlie caught the hesitation in Colby's voice as the agent used Don's name, clearly sensing it was a gamble – it would either pull Charlie back from the edge, or send him right over.

Lucky for Colby, the bet played out. The last thing Charlie wanted to do was further disappoint his brother.

"I'm sorry," he said in an embarrassed tone, raising his eyes apologetically to meet the EMTs. She was short, Charlie could tell that even sitting down, and he would have thought she was fairly pretty if the situation had been different and his mind would have allowed him to think that way.

"That's ok. Are you with me now?" Charlie nodded at her. "Pay careful attention while I tell you what's going on. Are you in any pain?" Charlie thought he could remember that she had given him something earlier, right when they'd gotten into the ambulance.

"Just a little," Charlie finally said, glancing down at his wounded arm for the first time. It was more like a really sore bee sting at the moment. What ever she had given him seemed to be working well.

The wound itself was disgusting. It was nothing like what Charlie had seen on any TV show. The skin puckered in where the bullet had entered. The EMT had covered the wound in bandages, but there was dried blood that had sheeted down his arm. Charlie noted that the bandages were still white – nothing had soaked through.

Slowly, his mathematician's logical mind began to take over, soothing part of the emotional turmoil, and his need for answers became paramount.

"What…?" he asked slowly, still trying to articulate. Sarah smiled at him.

"The bullet lost most of its momentum," she said carefully, making sure not to mention that it had lost its speed passing through Don's shoulder, but Charlie could fill in the blanks. "So when it struck your arm, it didn't go very deep. In fact, it's only a few centimeters under your skin there, and it's probably only moving just a little."

"Can't you take it out?" Charlie suddenly squeaked. He'd never had too much of a stomach for wounds like this, and his dreams had occasionally been tormented by images like this, but always of Don, never of him. Unfortunately, today the dreams had become reality.

"No," she said with a gentle smile. "For a lot of reasons, but we want to prevent infection, and if I pulled it out here, you would keep bleeding, and we don't want that. Right now, the bullet's kind of acting like a cork. It's keeping all your blood inside, so you won't bleed to death on the trip to the hospital." She was smiling now, trying to put him at ease, and Charlie found himself smiling back, grateful for the distraction.

"The good news is you're going to be fine, right?" Colby said, gently squeezing Charlie's good arm.

Sarah nodded. "That's right Mr. Eppes. As far as I can tell you're going to be fine. You'll be a little sore for a week or two, but the doctors should be able to remove that bullet no problem and patch you right up. You're a mathematician right? Hope you're not left handed."

Charlie blinked at her for a moment, and realized that Colby must have filled her in a little. "No, I'm right handed."

"Good, then I think you'll be right as rain," she promised him warmly. Charlie felt the tension ease for a moment, and then the situation came rushing back.

"I'm going to be fine," he muttered. "But Don? What about my brother?" The panicked tinge to his voice was back.

Sarah frowned and glanced at Colby. Colby sighed quietly.

"Charlie, we won't know anything until we get to the hospital," Colby reminded him.

Charlie swung his now wild eyes back to Sarah. "You can tell me, can't you?"

"Mr. Eppes, Charlie," she said with a pause. "I didn't examine your brother and I'm not a doctor, so I couldn't really say."

"But you just told me I'm going to be fine!" Charlie protested, his voice creeping up a few decibels.

The EMT nodded sadly. "I know. But I'm here with you right now, I can see your wound, and I can assess it."

"He was shot, four, no," Charlie paused and swallowed hard. "Five times." Once in the beginning to overtake him, the second time as a warning, the third and fourth to prove a point and provide leverage, and the last time? The last time to save Charlie's life. "Four times in the vest. And once in the shoulder. And ribs. He had broken ribs. And he hit his head. Twice." Charlie's voice was so heavy and so constricted, that he had to look down, and tell himself to keep breathing.

The EMT gaped at him, the sympathy she felt apparent, but Charlie didn't see her. It was a good thing too, because she simply shook her head. Colby saw her, but said nothing, knowing that she thought his boss was probably in some serious trouble.

"Charlie," Colby said softly. "Don is going to need you. You're going to have to be strong for him, ok? For him and your Dad."

Charlie's head shot up. "Dad. I forgot about Dad. I have to call him. Someone has to tell him that I let Donnie get shot…"

"Charlie!" Colby's sharp tone focused the young mathematician. "You did not get Don shot. Are you listening to me? You didn't do it. You were not responsible for what happened."

Charlie blinked at Colby. He wanted to believe Colby so bad, but not now. He just couldn't. Don was probably dead. If Don lived, he could maybe think of mathematically mapping it out to see how much blame he deserved, but until then? Until he knew Don was going to live? How could he not blame himself?

"I need to talk to my father," Charlie said stubbornly, not acknowledging Colby, who was looking at him with pity and worry, which Charlie highly doubted he deserved.

"Don't worry about that now Charlie. I'm sure David went to get him."

"No!" Charlie said suddenly, knowing he was being difficult and hating himself for it. "No… David had Don's blood on his hands. If Dad sees that, he'll panic. I have to tell him…"

"Charlie?" Sarah interrupted, in a voice that brokered no argument. "You're going to have a panic attack if you don't relax a little. You're driving your heart rate up, which is forcing your blood to pump faster, and you're going to make your recovery that much worse, and your friend here is right. Your brother is going to need you, and that means you have to be physically ready for that."

Charlie nodded. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just this has all been so overwhelming…" Charlie trailed off because both the EMT and Colby were nodding profusely.

"You don't have to apologize, but what I do need you to do is to lie back because we're coming into the hospital now."

Charlie felt a spike of fear and wish that Don was there with him, wished he could reach out to grab his brother's hand and feel the reassuring presence that Don always brought, but this time he would have to do this alone.

The slight pressure on his good arm brought him back to reality and Charlie couldn't help but smile just a little. Well, not quite alone. Even though Don wasn't there, he was inadvertently sent someone to look after him – Colby was there.

Moments later, the ambulance came to a stop, and the back doors were pulled open, and the stretcher Charlie was on began to move. The quiet of the interior of the ambulance was replaced by a nearby siren, and dozens of voices. Sarah was leaning over him, pulling the gurney, and rattling off information about his vitals to the ER staff that had come out to meet the ambulance.

Charlie turned his head to one side to see two other ambulances in the lot and he wondered which one Don had come in.

Then, Sarah was gone and they were in the building, and he was staring up at the fluorescent ceiling lights as they flashed by. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, suddenly feeling light headed.

Colby's hand never lost contact, until suddenly Charlie heard an authoritative voice from somewhere above him.

"I'm sorry sir, you can't come in here."

"My boss would want me to stay with him," Colby was protesting. "I'm with the…"

"FBI?" the voice interrupted. "I'm sorry sir, but I don't care. You'll have to wait. We'll let you know as soon as we're done here," the last part was softened a little, and Charlie opened his eyes and tried to reassure Colby, who in turn, was trying to reassure him.

"I'll be right out here Charlie," Colby assured him, then Charlie's stretcher moved again and he was through some doors into a room.

"We have a GSW to the upper left arm, bleeding has slowed, the force of the bullet was slowed when it passed through another person's arm."

Charlie winced at the statement, remembering the scene all over again – Don, there in front of him, stumbling, and then obviously falling, and Charlie was trying to reach out to him, trying to keep him from falling, and then another gun shot, but this one sounded louder than the rest. Charlie saw the blood blossom into a red mass on Don's shoulder, saw the surprised look on Don's face, then the horror that crested it, and it was only then that Charlie himself had realized that the bullet has passed into his arm.

In that moment, he'd wanted to figure out how impossible that was, but he couldn't. He couldn't because they were both falling, and he was trying to cushion Don, but he'd only been able to do so much. Charlie had heard the sharp crack resonate from Don when they'd hit the floor and watched the apologetic and guilty look cross his brother's dark, expressive eyes before they closed.

"Mr. Eppes?" the doctor was asking worriedly. "Are you still with us?" Charlie stared up at him and realized the doctor had been trying to talk to him.

"Yes," Charlie finally replied. "My brother, they brought my brother in here, maybe a few minutes earlier than me. Probably five or six, that's all. Could be more like eight or nine if everyone obeyed the law and got out of the ambulance's way, but they brought him here. I need to know if he's all right. He's an FBI agent."

"Mr. Eppes, I need you to relax. I'll send someone to find out if your brother was admitted, but I need you to focus on me. We need to take the bullet out of your arm." Charlie nodded a little, knowing the doctor was probably lying about going to ascertain Don's whereabouts, but he knew there was little he could do about it.

"Ok."

"It won't take long, but we're going to put you out. It's a simple procedure, but it's going to hurt, which is why we'll put you under. You think you're ready?"

"I just want to know if my brother's ok," Charlie protested, but there was a mask already coming down over his mouth, hazing his senses. He'd hardly noticed that the doctor had been giving orders, calling for several instruments. When the doctor just smiled warmly at him, and promised him it would be over soon, Charlie was left with nothing but the drug, which slowly hazed his world to black.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 9 of ?

Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs, and sadly, I never will.

Author's Note: Once again, thank you so much for all of your wonderful reviews. I rewrote this chapter twice, and I had hoped to get further along in the timeline, but suddenly it was so long! So I had to change my thinking! I hope you enjoy it…let me know!

Lady Winter

* * *

Alan Eppes had always thought that he was a lucky father. There had been many trying moments obviously – millions of them in fact. After all, there was no such thing as smooth sailing when you were raising children. His children had proved to be even more difficult than most. Or, rather, Charlie had proved to be more difficult, though difficult wasn't a word that Alan would have chosen.

There was no arguing that raising a gifted child had its bumps, and those bumps had been all encompassing. It hadn't been easy to give Charlie what he needed and to balance Don, who had been bright enough, but always eclipsed.

Alan had a lot of regrets regarding his sons' childhoods, but, as he often said, that was in the past. The real joy had come as the boys had become older. They were both fine children to have, and Alan had plenty of bragging rights. His youngest son was a genius, a prodigy in his field, and well respected and well known. His older son was a gifted and decorated FBI agent, who did more for justice than Alan would ever know.

He was proud of his sons. It was a terrible thing that it had taken his wife's sickness and death to bring Don home from a self-imposed distance, but in the end, as Margaret had predicted, it was a homecoming that would change everything.

Don and Charlie still had their issues. They were both stubborn – they got that from Alan himself. They were both proud – that they got from their mother. They were so different that they were constantly banging heads – Don still trying to get out of Charlie's shadow, a shadow that was mostly in his own mind, and Charlie constantly trying to win his older brother's approval, which he already had, but didn't realize. Sometimes, they were exhausting.

None the less, in the past few years, Alan had been thrilled to see them renew their relationship and start to sift through the issues that they had. It was a gradual process, but Alan had thought they were doing rather well for all of the problems that they had.

At first he'd been reluctant about Charlie assisting Don with the FBI. He had been afraid of the results of Charlie encroaching on what Don did best, and what was worse was actually _knowing_ what Don did. Hearing the sordid details was too much. Having Don come home after being shot at, and having Charlie blame himself for it was too much. And having Charlie in the line of fire, that was too much too.

Still, he couldn't stop either of the boys, who weren't really boys, but rather grown men. Grown men who could make their own decisions. And making their own decisions was what they seemed to think they did best. Which included Charlie deciding to get involved in Don's more dangerous cases. It also included Don thinking that he was taking great care of himself, even when he went for days with almost no sleep, and then into the field with even less.

But they were good children. They loved and respected him and they never ceased to show it. Alan certainly thought he was a lucky father.

Today though, at seven forty one at night, he suddenly didn't feel so lucky any more. Not standing in a non-descript hospital waiting room, with orange plastic chairs, a left over from the seventies, and green flecked tile that clashed horribly. No, Alan wasn't feeling lucky.

He hadn't been feeling lucky since Megan Reeves had pulled into his driveway driving Don's SUV, which was lacking its owner. He hadn't been feeling so lucky since Megan had told him that his sons had both been injured. Even when she'd assured him that Charlie was going to be fine, he didn't feel lucky. The strain in her voice told him that she wasn't completely sure. And when he'd asked about Don? It seemed that there was no luck left in the world.

Alan reflected that he should have known something was wrong when Amita had shown up at the house. He'd been surprised to see her. He knew that things between Amita and Charlie were over, at least romantically speaking, thought it was hard to really say anything, beyond a lot of flirtation, to which Charlie had been rather blind, had really gone on. Charlie was still her thesis advisor, and they remained friends, but her social visits to the house had cut down significantly. She was only there when there was some sort of get together, and then, she hardly gravitated to Charlie like she used to.

So Alan wasn't prepared when she'd knocked on his door with a hollow look on her face, which she had tried to hide. Alan had assumed something was wrong and she'd come to get advice from Charlie, or perhaps Don. When he'd told her that neither of the boys were home, because many times he caught her asking after Don rather than Charlie, she had seemed unsurprised, but had asked to stay anyway. That should have been his first indication. She must have known something was wrong. She had done a marvelous job distracting him, down to making sure he'd never turned the evening news on.

The car ride to the hospital, Grace Memorial Megan had told him, was excruciating. No one spoke. Alan had been hesitant to let Megan drive, because she looked so lost and so hurt, an image that he was mirroring ten fold. She had insisted, and when they'd left the house, she'd managed to tell Alan that she'd been there, with the boys when they'd been injured, but when he pressed for details, she choked up, something that Alan hadn't thought the strong, often detached profiler was capable of. He hadn't pressed, unsure if he wanted to know what she knew. Unsure if he could handle it.

They'd taken Don's car, and the faint scent of his aftershave, something so familiar to Alan, had almost made him want to take his own car, but he didn't trust himself to drive. Amita had wordlessly come, and Alan caught her gripping the plastic handle on the door so tightly that her skin was white around the knuckles.

By the time Alan realized Megan was physically shaking, they were pulling into the hospital parking garage. His fatherly instincts came out in overflow, because if he couldn't take care of Charlie and Don, he would take care of his son's partner. Once they'd arrived at the waiting room, he'd sent Amita to find Megan a blanket and to get her some food, or at least some liquid.

Only then did Alan gather the courage to go up to information desk to enquire about his sons. He'd almost reached the desk when Colby Granger appeared by his side, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Mr. Eppes?" he asked, worry heavy in his voice as he reached out to touch the older man on the arm.

"Colby, did you come here with my boys?" he asked, surprised at how broken his voice sounded, how desperate he was for information.

"I rode in with Charlie, in the ambulance," Colby said, a semi-relieved look passing over his face.

"How is he?" Alan asked, his voice catching in his throat.

"Actually, I've been waiting to hear. When I got here, they wouldn't let me follow him any further, but the EMT told me he'd be fine, and she was pretty certain." Alan carefully listened to Colby's tone of voice, and found no reservation there.

"But you haven't heard anything since they took him into the ER?"

"No, sir. I was just coming to check again. I had to call in to the director. I've only been here for about an hour."

Alan had nodded and then turned to see that Amita had returned to Megan's side bearing coffee and a stale looking donut. "You should check on your partner and I'll ask about the boys." Colby nodded and turned to go, but Alan reached out to grab his elbow. "You haven't heard anything about Don?"

Just saying his son's name made his heart feel like it was being crushed.

Colby shook his head, his eyes finding a spot on the tile beneath his feet. "No, sir." It dawned on Alan that Colby had seen Don – maybe had even seen what happened. Alan turned away, still unable to ask for answers. He left Colby there, knowing he might have seemed rude, but unable to care.

The final few feet to the information desk seemed painful. Alan felt like he had lead weights tied to his feet, but before he knew it, he was standing there and the receptionist in yellow scrubs was staring up at him, asking in a kind voice if she could help him.

"Yes…" he started, but his voice was so soft that he had to try again. "Yes. My son's were brought in earlier. I need to… I need to…" Alan didn't know what he needed. There were just a million things. He needed to see the boys. He needed them to be ok. He needed to talk to a doctor. He needed a doctor to tell him that both his boys were fine. He needed to touch them. He needed to see them laugh. He needed to see them smile. He needed for this not to be happening.

"Can I have their names?" she asked him understandingly, dragging him back to her attention.

"Eppes." It was all he could manage. He tried again. "Charles and Donald Eppes. E, P, P, E, S."

"I'm showing that a Charles Eppes is still in the ER, but hasn't been admitted yet. They haven't moved him to a room yet," here she frowned. "I don't have a Donald Eppes listed. Are you sure they were both brought here?"

Alan had stopped breathing. The only thing that his mind allowed him to think was that Don was dead. He wasn't listed in the computer because he was already in the morgue. What was it they said? DOA? Dead on arrival?

"Mr. Eppes? Are you all right?" the young woman was asking, now on her feet, staring at him with a huge amount of concern. Alan tried to speak, knew his mouth was opening and closing, but nothing was coming out.

"Excuse me, is there anyone here for Charles Eppes?"

The question, spoken from across the room, startled Alan enough that he turned to find a doctor standing in the doorway to the ER, looking around hopefully.

Megan, Amita and Colby were on their feet.

"Me, I'm here for Charles Eppes," Alan finally said, finding his voice. He took a tentative step towards the doctor, but his mind was still trapped on what the receptionist had said.

"And you are?" the doctor asked, clearly noting Megan and Colby's FBI jackets.

"I'm his father," Alan said, his voice betraying all the tension and fear he was feeling, and it came out a little sharper than he intended. The doctor didn't seem fazed, and he smiled at Alan.

"Good, Charlie's been asking for you. I'm Dr. Gordon, and if you come with me, I can take you to see Charlie. But, I'm afraid it can only be immediate family." His last comment was directed at Megan, Amita and Colby. Alan was nodding, but he fiercely grabbed Amita's hand as he walked by her.

"The receptionist says that Don's not listed as being a patient here. Find him." He knew it came out as an order, but Amita was nodding, and the two FBI agents had heard him too.

It always seemed to be this way. He had to make sure Charlie was ok and Don would have to wait. For a little while longer, Don would have to be on his own. It was a simple repeat of Don's whole life. Alan bit back the bitterness within himself at the mistakes he felt he'd made as a father. Right now, Charlie needed him.

The doctor had a hand on his elbow, leading Alan through the doorway.

"Mr. Eppes, I'm glad to tell you that Charlie's going to be just fine. Has anyone told you what happened yet?"

"No," Alan said, reflecting that he hadn't let Megan tell him. "No, all I know is that both my sons were injured."

"Charlie was shot at fairly close range, but the bullet was significantly slowed down, so by the time it entered Charlie's arm," here the doctor was motioning to show Alan where Charlie had been shot, in the left bicep, "it had slowed down so much that it lodged just under the skin. We simply removed the bullet, cleaned the wound and made a few wide sutures. It's going to take some time to heal, he shouldn't use the arm very much and will need to wear a sling for about four weeks, but we expect full recovery."

Alan was listening so hard he almost missed the part when the doctor told him Charlie was going to be fine. The relief was so overwhelming that he couldn't think straight for a few moments, and the doctor mistook his silence for worry.

"Trust me Mr. Eppes, your son was incredibly lucky. It didn't come anywhere close to a blood vessel. We only had to put him under lightly, and he's already awake." At that point, they had reached a room, and when the doctor still didn't get a response from Alan, he simply slid a curtain to one side and ushered Alan in.

Apparently the information the computer had was wrong, because Charlie had been placed in a room – if a space surrounded on three sides by a curtain, and only on one side with a wall could be considered a room.

Charlie was propped up in the standard hospital bed, looking a little groggy. His left arm was in a sling, protectively resting against his chest, and Alan wanted to scream with joy, because besides looking a little pale, there was Charlie, in one piece.

As soon as the curtain moved, Charlie looked up and even managed to smile. It was a smile of desperation. "Dad! Thank goodness you're here. They wouldn't let me call you…" Charlie began, but his voice sounded exhausted and Alan didn't like what he was seeing.

Charlie might have been ok physically, but there was something else seriously wrong. Only a father could note the drawn look about Charlie's face, how his brows seemed pinched, and the vacant look in his eyes – the look he'd only seen when he'd walked in on the boys after their mother had died.

He'd rushed home, hurrying to stop Don from doing something he would regret with the anger he'd been feeling towards Charlie. Instead of finding Don venting his anger at Charlie, Alan had found Don holding Charlie, sitting on the floor of the garage, as Charlie sobbed. When Charlie had finally gotten himself under control, he's simply stayed in Don's arms, that vacant, terrified look in his eyes.

"Dad, I'm so sorry." Alan realized Charlie was still talking and he forced himself to focus. "I'm so sorry."

"Charlie, what are you talking about? Shhh, you have to rest. You've been hurt. That God you're ok." Alan did the only thing he could do, and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching up to move errant curls out of Charlie's face. He was so grateful to touch his son that the feeling was too hard to describe. Charlie was there. Alive.

"Dad it's my fault. I couldn't save Don. I tried to. I swear I tried to, but I just wasn't fast enough…" Charlie was crying now, reaching for his father. Alan carefully pulled him into a hug, keeping himself clear of the wounded arm. "Is he? Is he ok?" Charlie was sniffling, and Alan was thinking that the last time he'd seen Charlie cry was when Margaret had passed. And now he was crying again, babbling on about not being able to save Don. Alan wanted to ease his pain, but he had no idea what Charlie meant.

"Charlie, whatever happened, I'm sure it wasn't your fault. All that matters is that you're ok," Alan soothed, but now his mind was working overtime. _What did happen?_ Charlie didn't respond, just buried his face back in Alan's shoulder. "Dr. Gordon?"

The doctor, who'd been standing nearby, was frowning.

"I promise he's fine. We can discharge him within the hour if you'll sign for his release. He'll have to come back for several check ups and the wound must be kept clean, so some sort of home care would be advisable. I've already written out a prescription for pain relief…"

"Dr. Gordon," Alan said again, interrupting. The doctor paused. "I have another son. Do you know what's happened to him?" Slowly, Gordon shook his head no. It was clear that Charlie had already been asking.

"No, I'm sorry. I only took care of Charlie. But I haven't seen anyone else on the board with the last name of Eppes," he paused, gauging the shocked expression on Alan's face. "There is a chance… I mean, do you know what the extent of his injuries were?" Alan could only shake his head negatively. "If it was very severe, they might have simply mercy-flighted him to LA Central. They have the best trauma unit in the city."

Alan nodded, and tried to fight the spark of hope that flashed in him. He didn't want to be let down. But the word _trauma_ was already burned into his mind, mixing the hope with bitter fear.

"Why don't you go out and have the receptionist make a few calls and I'll get Charlie ready for discharge," the doctor suggested, but Alan hesitated, not wanting to leave Charlie who was so obviously upset.

"Dad, please go check," Charlie was pleading now, his tears drying. "I'll be fine. Please."

"Ok, but you do everything the doctor asks." After procuring a promise from Charlie, it was all Alan could do to drag himself away, but his need to find Don was overwhelming. As soon as he came back through the doors, he found Amita and Colby anxiously waiting for him.

"Mr. Eppes! Don was here, but they moved him. They took him via a mercy flight to Central," Colby told Alan quickly.

Alan shivered a little. "Just how badly was he hurt?" he finally managed to ask.

"Very badly," Megan said, coming up behind Alan. "I'm so sorry Mr. Eppes."


	10. Chapter 10

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 10 of ?

Disclaimer: Don't sue me, I'm not making any profit off of this.

Author's Note: Well guys, here we go again! I like this chapter, even though medically, it may not be as sound as the rest of the story will be, but it was needed in the progression. Once again, my mother the trauma nurse, tells me that this certainly is possible, but not likely. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Lady Winter

* * *

The first thing Don was aware of was the pain that he could still feel. And there was lot of it. It was overwhelming; to the point that he wished he was unconscious again. Nothing was working right. His body wasn't responding. His eyes wouldn't open. His hand wouldn't move. His mouth seemed sealed shut. And his mind? His mind was unresponsive. It refused to remind him what was going on.

All he knew was pain. Severe, excruciating pain, that seemed to be coming from where he thought his chest ought to be. For a moment, Don wondered if he was dead, but figured that if this was Hell, it would hurt more, and if it was Heaven, it wouldn't hurt at all.

That made him realized that his brain actually was working. His mind wasn't as dead as he thought it had been. _So what in the world is going on?_

The realization was like a blinding flash, and the heartache that came with it was painful to say the least. All Don could see in his mind's eye was Charlie, standing in front of him, covered in blood. _Oh God, I let Charlie get shot. Oh God._ The feeling made him sick.

Don had to know what had happened to his brother. There was no option involved. He had to know, one way or another, so he further pushed his mind for answers.

Slowly, but surely, the FBI training kicked in, aided by a personality that was a perfect fit for a federal investigator, and Don's mind slowly began to focus.

For some reason, Don couldn't seem to recall what exactly had happened. His brain was telling him something about too much trauma. All he knew was that Charlie had been shot. Don thought that he'd tried to stop Charlie from getting shot, but he'd apparently failed because Charlie had blood on him.

Don's imagination quickly amplified just how much blood there was, and fuzzily, Don tried to remember where Charlie had been shot, but he wasn't getting any answers. He also wasn't getting any answers about what had happened to him, and so much thinking was making his head hurt worse than it already was.

It felt like it took all of his strength, but Don managed to force his eyes open. The air stung them, and he squeezed them back shut again, but his need to know what was going on forced them back open. He felt protective tears well up, and they added to his general confusion, but Don quickly realized that he was lying on his back, facing a ceiling that was only a few feet above him, made of what Don could barely make out as gray metal, with white paint on some portions. Everything was blurry, and it took Don a moment to realize there were two people sitting near him.

One was talking, but Don couldn't distinguish the words. It was almost like a foreign language. The other was doing something to him, to his arm, his left arm, and Don suddenly realized that he couldn't feel that arm. His mind supplied that it was likely someone had simply amputated it, but that didn't seem to make sense. But then again, nothing seemed to be making much sense.

The FBI agent strained to listen, trying to make out the person's words, but instead he heard a soft _thump thump thump_ that seemed to be resonating from above him. He tried to turn his head to the side, only to be met with a nauseating feeling as pain spiked down his neck, into his back.

When the flashes of light that had been dancing in front of his vision slowly subsided, Don found he was looking out a window, and he could see clouds. _Come on Don, you're really losing it. First you think someone amputated your arm, and now you're only seeing blue skies and clouds. Very funny._ He tried to chide himself, but slow rationality poked through the mess of confusion in his brain. _Helicopter. You're in a helicopter._

Don couldn't figure out why that made more sense to him, but apparently it did, and he felt strangely relieved. He thought about turning his head back, but didn't want to risk the pain. It was then that he realized the there was something irritating on his face, and he realized with a start that he was wearing an oxygen mask.

It frustrated him that he couldn't think straight. Something like that should have been one of the first things he'd noticed. Instead, nothing seemed to be working properly, least of all his mind. Growing impatience made him try to move.

"Oh no you don't, Agent Eppes," a voice said from above him, and a face leaned down into Don's field of vision. Don was so preoccupied with the fact that he'd been able to hear that he forgot his earlier idea to try to move around. "Just stay still. Hey John, he's awake."

"Can you hear me ok, Agent Eppes?" the other figure said, also leaning over. Don could only stare up at them and blink. _Agent Eppes. They know I'm an FBI agent. Come on. Think Eppes. What's going on?_

"He's really out of it. Probably the morphine," one of the voices said.

"Or that nasty bump on his head. Severe concussion. Hospital will be glad to know he woke up. I can't believe he's awake at all," the other said worriedly.

_Concussion? Hospital. They said hospital. I'm on a mercy flight. I was wounded at the bank. Charlie. What about Charlie?_ It all came back in a painful rush, and Don started to squirm again, but the pain exploded again.

This time it was worse than before. He could hear the steady beep of some medical monitoring device speeding up. Vaguely he heard the two EMTs jump into action. One was trying to verbally sooth him, while the other was reaching for something to sedate him. Through the pain, Don wanted to yell at them not to put him back under. He wanted to demand to know what had happened to Charlie. The oxygen mask prevented him, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Don had a good idea that even if it hadn't been there, talking might have been more difficult than he would have liked.

He didn't actually see the EMT injecting something into the IV that they had set up in his right arm, but he could feel it. It made him sleepy, but not so sleepy that he fell back into the blissful dark that one part of him craved – a place away from all the pain and all the doubt – a place where he wouldn't have to worry about Charlie. Where he wouldn't have to think about the fact that he'd failed his little brother.

Instead, everything got heavy and dull. His vision faded further, and everything above him became a mass of blurred colors. Moving even his head would have been impossible, and even though he was fairly certain the two EMTs were still talking, he couldn't hear them, let alone make out what they were saying.

That left Don in a terrible limbo between unconsciousness and the pain that his body was in.

There was no way Don could know what damage had been done to him. At the moment, he wasn't even able to remember the events that led up to the fact that he was now in a helicopter, flying over Los Angeles en route to LA Central. He couldn't remember the four bullets lodged in the flak jacket, had no way of knowing just how many of his ribs had been broken, or that, when he'd been shot the fifth time, trying save Charlie, that when he'd fallen, the fall had forced the rib bones into his lungs.

Don didn't know that the oxygen mask was keeping him breathing. He had no idea that the EMTs actually wanted to intabate him because of how many times he'd stopped breathing, but were afraid to do it in the air. He had no idea that the fact that he had even regained consciousness would probably end up as a medical oddity or medical mystery/miracle somewhere in some medical journal at the end of the month, whether he made it or not.

He also didn't know that he was bleeding internally, or that it had taken the EMTs the whole trip to Grace Memorial to stop his arm from bleeding. He could not be aware that when they had arrived, the head attending and head of surgery had taken one look at him and insisted that he be sent straight to LA Central to the trauma unit. Don had been being loaded into the helicopter just as Charlie's ambulance had been arriving at the hospital. And there was absolutely no way that Don could have known that Charlie was fine, or at least as fine as he could be after having a bullet pulled from his arm.

All Don knew was that he had a total lack of control. It was something that he was used to, but never comfortable with. Being in law enforcement was the definition of being "out of control." The fact of the matter was that crime, while enforced, was hardly ever capable of being controlled. And in the FBI, Don had faced all sorts of crime that couldn't be controlled. That was why he was faced with it – to find a way to control it.

Don liked being in control. When he'd lived with Kim Hall, one of their first fights had been about where she moved his CDs. She had at first combined their collections into one pile and she couldn't understand why Don had been so upset when he couldn't find his Frank Sinatra Essentials. She had eventually located it herself, mixed in with several of her 80's rock collections, but Don had been seriously upset.

Kim had pretty much freaked out when she'd arrived home the next day to find that he'd bought two CD towers – one for her and one for him. She'd raged about his obsessive nature, while he'd argued that she was too unorganized. In the end, it had been something that Don used as a comfort when their relationship had ended – she never would have understood his need to alphabetize his CD collection, and if she didn't understand that, how much of Don could she really have understood?

Don understood that life was uncontrollable, but he didn't like it, so where he was able to control things, he did so with as much efficiency as possible. It was actually something that Charlie didn't understand about Don – the basic science behind how Don operated.

Charlie functioned in a world where everything could be controlled – controlled by numbers. Charlie often liked to quantify human behavior, something that had repeatedly gotten him in trouble emotionally while working with Don. Don repeatedly reminded Charlie that humans were unpredictable, even if they often did predictable things, but Charlie rarely wanted to see that.

They banged heads because Charlie thought that Don understood that life could be quantified and controlled – after all, Charlie had pointed out Don's obsessive need to alphabetize the CD and DVD collections that he had. He had perused Don's book collection, finding everything ordered first by author's last name, then if possible, by height. Don hung all of his clothes facing the same way, and more often than not, his clothes were grouped by color. Charlie thought that this mirrored the rest of the way Don looked at life.

What he missed was the fact that Don was all too aware that life wasn't easily simplified and solved. Don was so surrounded by discontinuity and chaos in his job, that he tried to make up for it in his home life.

Don knew that Charlie was learning that fact the hard way. His younger brother had pretty much simply shut down when he hadn't been able to tell that the Charm School Boys, who had been apparently politely robbing banks, had deadly back up waiting outside of each heist, just in case they were challenged. Charlie had seen a resulting shootout involving Don happen on TV and it had taken a lot of angry words, and a lot of patience to make Charlie understand that it wasn't his fault – it was just that life, and people, were unpredictable.

Knowing that didn't make things any easier though. And not being able to control things always frustrated Don. And now was the culmination of most of Don's fears – all centered around lack of control.

Don had no knowledge as to the condition of his brother, and he had no knowledge as to the condition of himself. He had no idea how badly hurt he was, and he had no idea where he was going. He hardly knew what was going on at all.

Don's body was fighting a battle that it couldn't win, and despite the fact that the EMTs had been trying to keep Don conscious, his body had other ideas. Slowly but surely, Don's body refused the oxygen again, and he blacked out completely as the monitors in the helicopter began to go off again.

John Tores, who had been an EMT for seven years, wasn't about to let his patient die there in the helicopter, so he motioned for his partner.

"Tim, I think we're going to have to intabate. I know you don't want to do it, and I know if we get any turbulence that we're in trouble, but he's not breathing again."

"We're only three minutes out!" Tim Horn protested, but he glanced down at the still man lying on the gurney. When they'd been given their charge, one of the nurses that had come up had pressed his personal effects, already in a bag, into Tim's hand. At the bottom was the hard leather case that held Don's badge.

"He's an FBI agent!" she called over the sound of the blades beating the air as the helicopter prepared for take off. "You guys better make sure he gets there alive or you should expect they'll be looking into your taxes next year!" She'd been trying to joke, but he could tell she was being deadly serious that they had better keep him alive. There was something dire about saving law enforcement people. It was like there was some inherent need – to go the extra mile, because somewhere along the line, people felt that law enforcement personnel protected and saved their lives. It was only right to return the favor.

"I know, but he hasn't got three minutes if he isn't getting air in there," John was saying, already with the equipment in his hand. "His body is done for without it."

"You know we're going to be in huge trouble for this," Tim said as he tipped Don's head back a little, opening up his air passageway further.

"Yeah, but something tells me this one's got a will to live, and we're only in deep trouble if he dies. If he lives, we're only in a little trouble," John replied, a grim smile on his face. Tim nodded.

"Ok, let's do this then."

If Don had known what they were about to do, he would have wondered where it all fit in the concept of lack of control, but he doubt he would have argued, because as it was, his chances weren't looking all that great.

As Charlie would have said, statistically he was dead. Five times that day he'd had a gun pointed at him and fired at him, and all five time's he'd been hit. Statistically, he was dead.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 11 of ?

Disclaimer: Numb3rs isn't mine. Sigh Oh well.

Author's Note: Once again, you guys are amazing. I hope this chapter doesn't throw anyone for a loop. It's a little heavy on the Don/Amita thing, but I don't think it's too much… But then again, I'm the author lol. Hope you guys like what you read!

Lady Winter

* * *

Charlie had waited impatiently for the doctor to return with his release papers. He didn't want to be in the hospital anymore, at least not if Don wasn't there. He wanted out and he wanted to find his brother. And he wanted to apologize again to his father – to make his father understand what he had done – how he hadn't been able to protect Don.

The thought almost made him laugh, and he felt the inappropriate giddiness rising up in him. Protect Don? He'd never done that in his entire life. He'd never had to. Don had always been the one to take care of himself, because no one else had time to do it. He'd done it so much that it was part of his skin – part of his being, which made Don asking for help the most shocking thing Charlie ever heard.

Granted, Don had been doing better at that. He'd been doing much better. Sometimes he pressed too much for Charlie's help. But the only help he wanted was with his FBI cases. When it came to his personal life, Don ducked out again, the tight wall he'd erected so many years ago still in place.

Charlie had to bite down the giddiness inside of him. What was he thinking? Nothing about this situation was funny.

When the doctor had finally returned, he'd come bearing a wheel chair. He'd helped Charlie in, who'd felt a bit dizzy, and then as he'd rolled Charlie down the hall, he'd given Charlie express directions about what he was to do for recovery.

"You're on immediate bed rest for twenty four hours. I've prescribed pain medication to keep it at bay, but only for a week. After that you'll have to handle your own pain management with something else. I suggest Tylenol. The hospital will be contacting you shortly about a home care service. Your wound will need to be monitored. Your insurance should more than cover a visiting nurse to come, change your bandages and give you wound care. If you're told it's infected, you're to return to the hospital immediately. No heavy lifting for a month, and I want you to wear a sling until you return for a checkup, which we'll schedule for a few days from now. Charlie, do you understand all of this?"

Charlie blinked a few times, then nodded. He'd heard it all, but somehow none of it seemed important.

The doctor had let his father sign the release forms while Megan, Colby and Amita eagerly made sure for themselves that Charlie was going to be fine. Charlie had had to stop Megan from apologizing, and was shocked to find that she was feeling as guilty as he was. She kept saying over and over that she should have been able to do something and that she should have known that something like this could have happened. Charlie thought for a moment that he was going to cry if she apologized one more time for putting him in danger. All he could think about was that he was so glad she hadn't been harmed.

Then came the inevitable fight. His father had informed him that Don had been taken via helicopter to LA Central and that he was going straight there.

Naturally, Charlie wanted to go.

"Absolutely not," Alan said firmly. "You're going straight home. The doctor said bed rest." Charlie winced. The doctor had given Alan the same speech he'd received on the way to discharge.

"Dad, you don't understand. I have to see Don. I have to be there!"

"Charlie," Megan broke in softly. "There's not a very good chance that anyone will be able to see Don for a while."

"She's right Charlie," Alan said, and Charlie had caught the choked sound in his father's voice. The same sound that had been there when Alan had set Charlie down one day and explained that the doctors simply had no hope for his mother to ever recover. "You have to get your rest. I can't have two sons in the hospital. I have to know you're safe and all right."

"Dad," Charlie said, feeling the tears prick his eyes. "Don needs me. I have to make things right. If he… If he…" Charlie could not bring himself to say 'dies.' "Dad, I have to tell him how sorry I am…"

"Charlie!" The protest came from Megan, whose face was white. "This was not your fault. Don would never blame you."

"And he would want you to be home resting," Colby added firmly.

"I'm not bending on this Charles," Alan had said, and the full use of his name had signaled to Charlie that the argument was over. "Amita, would you mind being so kind as to take Charlie home for me?" Charlie had noted how anxious his father had been for her to say yes.

He had also plainly noted Amita's slight hesitation. It had spiked jealousy in Charlie, but as quickly as it came, it was gone.

Don had often accused Charlie of being blind, especially when it came to women. Charlie had often argued and disagreed, but he'd always known Don was right. Being a genius, it sometimes wasn't easy to turn his mind off. In the middle of the most common things, Charlie's brain would simply start spouting numbers, and Charlie was left scrambling for a piece of paper, a chalk board, anything, to get it down. The numbers – the math – often consumed his life, and any social things he did were victim to the whim of his mathematical mind.

Relating to women had never been easy for Charlie. It wasn't that he wasn't horrible with women – he didn't send them running, and he had a fair share of students who practically stalked him on campus for his good looks and intelligence. However, prioritizing had never been one of Charlie's strong points, so putting a woman in front of his math was impossible, and there were few women who would mind the second slate.

The problem was, there were a few women did understand, and Amita had been one of them. At least, she had understood for a while. Charlie had always felt the undercurrent of flirtation and a simple mix of chemistry between Amita and himself, but he had waited too long. Their attempt at being more than just friends and colleagues hadn't gone well, and that had left them a bit estranged. It turned out their friendship worked just fine, but a relationship seemed doomed to fail.

They'd even gone so far to discuss it, and had settled on friends. Charlie had even been out on a few successful dates with other women, and was currently seeing where things were going with an old friend named Olivia, but somewhere, inside, he still felt something for Amita.

And that was the real problem because he didn't know why, and he wasn't the only one who had started to move on. The main difficulty was who Amita seemingly moved on to – none other than Don.

Charlie had known from the moment Don and Amita had met that they were physically attracted to each other. He knew the light in Don's eyes, and the way his skin crinkled around his eyes in a certain way when he smiled. And he knew the way Amita twisted her hair just so, and shifted from one foot to the other. He also hadn't missed their fairly innocent flirtation whenever they were around each other.

But Don was a good brother, and he hadn't ever pursued anything with Amita. He never let his touch linger, though the same couldn't be said for Amita, and he never even tried to make a move. Don had even encouraged Charlie to go after Amita before someone else did.

Charlie had confided in Don when everything between him and Amita had ended. Don had been a great comfort, offering words of advice, and a listening ear. Don had always been good with women. Women found him attractive, and he flirted easily. His easy smile was a beacon, and people were prone to trust him intensely. It was Don's follow through that was always the problem. Work ate up his time and his social life. Fear of leaving someone in pain kept him from becoming too attached. And Charlie had tried to pay back his brother's advice by explaining to Don that love was worth the risk, even when it meant losing.

Losing Amita hadn't bothered him until he'd caught her lingering glances on Don. She had always been willing to help Charlie with any of Don's cases, but as of late, it had become a real joy for her. At first Charlie had just thought he was being a little paranoid, but soon enough he'd realized that Amita certainly had a thing for Don. He'd caught Don gauging Amita as well, and figured that Don was well aware that Amita was interested.

At first it had been a surprise to Charlie that Don hadn't tried anything. After all, Amita was smart and fun, not to mention beautiful, and she clearly liked him. She wasn't oppressive with her intentions, but they were clear all the same. And somewhere inside, the part of Charlie that still resented Don's ease and charm, the part of Charlie that had never forgotten senior prom, figured that Don would use this as one more way to get back at Charlie for all the difficulty that he had caused Don in their youth.

Charlie had hated himself for thinking that way, and as the weeks wore on and Don still did nothing about Amita, Charlie began to hate himself even more. Charlie had realized that Don wasn't going to make a move. Don didn't want to hurt him. Amita was clearly off limits.

Then, slowly, Charlie had started to like the idea of Don dating Amita. It had almost become a plot for Charlie – wishing that two people he cared about so much could find happiness together. And more than anything in the world, Charlie wanted Don to be happy. And if happiness meant Don and Amita together, it was suddenly the most appealing thing Charlie could think of.

But there were still times when it hurt, and that moment, when Amita had hesitated in the hospital, clearly wanting to know how Don was, it hurt again.

"Of course Mr. Eppes! I would love to." And when she had said those words, the pain and jealousy faded, because there was nothing but truth in her voice. She reached down to squeeze Charlie's shoulder, and Charlie was eternally grateful for her friendship. "I'll stay with him as long as you need me to."

"Dad, please," Charlie managed to find his voice. "You'll call, won't you? As soon as you find out anything? I can't live without knowing."

Alan had smiled so tenderly at his son that Charlie felt the tears threatening again. Slowly, his father knelt in front of the wheelchair.

"I promise I will Charlie. This is all going to be ok, you understand that? Do not give up on your brother, he's going to be fine. I just need to know you're going to be ok, so I need you to do this. I need you to go home and rest. Ok?"

"Ok Dad," Charlie said, feeling suddenly exhausted. Alan leaned forward and gently kissed Charlie on the forehead, then motioned for Amita, who gently took the handles of the wheelchair.

"Come on Charlie, let's get you home. I know you probably don't feel like eating, but I'm going to make some food anyway. And then you're going straight to bed…" Amita kept talking, but Charlie lost his focus, the gentle tones in her voice easing some of his fear. She helped him into Don's SUV, and for a moment Charlie thought he was going to be sick, but there was nothing in his stomach to come out.

"I'm sorry Charlie, this is the only car we have here," Amita said sadly, clearly noting his reaction.

Charlie offered her a ghost of a smile to let her know he was ok, then leaned his head back against the head rest, and closed his eyes. He inhaled slowly, sensing Don all around him and tried to fight back the tears. He was unable to, and the tears slipped out from underneath his closed lids. Slowly he felt Amita hook one of her hands through his.

Charlie awoke with a start when he heard a car door shut. He opened his eyes to find that they were back at his house, and for a moment was confused, but realized he must have fallen asleep. Amita was there suddenly, opening his door and reaching over to help him take the seat belt off.

They didn't speak, but Charlie leaned on her a little, too tired to stand up all the way as she eased him out of the car and towards the door. She fumbled with the keys Alan had given her, but soon had them both inside the warm, inviting house. Charlie caught sight of Don's baby book lying on the floor, its pages splayed out on the carpet, but Amita steered him straight towards the stairs.

"I thought we were going to eat?" he protested gently, and she paused.

"Are you hungry?" she asked worriedly.

"No," Charlie said.

"Then stop being a pain," she said, a small bit of mirth in her voice. Charlie laughed a little, and it felt good, but he jostled his arm against the wall and let out a hiss of pain. "Be careful," she admonished. "Your father will kill me if he doesn't find you in one piece."

"Sorry," he replied, and for all the world, Charlie thought he sounded like a small child. At the top of the stairs, Amita turned him left to head towards his bedroom, but he resisted. "No. I want to go to Don's room."

"What?" she asked surprised, hesitating. "Charlie… I don't know if that's a good idea…"

"Amita, I can't be there with him. I… I just need to be close to him somehow. Please?" Charlie knew he was begging, but he simply didn't care.

Amita sighed out loud, and Charlie knew she was extremely worried about his mental state. He was worried about his mental state too, but he needed to be in Don's room.

"Ok," she finally agreed, and then turned to the right. Don's room was close, just a few feet away. It was much the same as it had been when Don had left for college, but the baseball posters had long been removed from the wall. The soft green that Margaret Eppes had painted the walls was an eerie match for the same color in Don's apartment that he was hardly ever at. Some of Don's baseball trophies from winning championships still littered the dresser and the book shelves. The closet was empty except for three or four shirts and a couple of ties that Don had left there in case of emergency. Don often wore those three or four shirts though, since he often ended up at the house instead of his apartment.

Charlie stumbled a little and was grateful that Amita was there to catch him. Slowly she lowered him onto the bed, hurriedly pulling the blue comforter and sheets back. Charlie sank back onto the bed, his arm, still in its sling, tight against his chest. The moment his head hit the pillow, he inhaled again, and was thrilled at the smell. It was a mix of the laundry detergent that his father used, the same kind his mother had always bought, and the smell of Don – it must have been his soap, his shampoo, or maybe his aftershave, but either way it was undoubtedly his big brother, and for as long as Charlie could remember, Don always smelled like that, and it was more comforting that he could express.

"Charlie, do you need anything?" Amita asked quietly, and he felt her warm hand smooth his curls away from his face.

"No, but promise you'll wake me up when Dad calls, just in case I fall asleep."

"I will Charlie. I promise," she said soothingly.

"If I could just figure out why it took me so long…" Charlie said, trailing off. He looked up at Amita, who was gently trying to quiet him. She smiled at him and he closed his mouth.

Another wave of exhaustion passed over Charlie. He was determined to stay awake, to wait for his father to call, but he closed his eyes for a moment, to try to ward of the sleepiness. It was the last thing he thought about as his tired body caught up with his mind and sleep overtook him.


	12. Chapter 12

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 12 of ?

Disclaimer: Don't sue me, I don't intend on any violation of rights.

Author's Note: Once more, you are all amazing. My brother is on leave from the NAVY this weekend, and has brought home his new gf for the family to meet, so I won't be posting for a few days probably, so bear with me. Thanks again and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Lady Winter

* * *

The car ride to LA Central was better than the first ride to Grace Memorial, but only a little. The differences were small, but they meant a lot to Alan. For one, they weren't in Don's SUV, which was strangely relieving. And secondly, Megan wasn't driving, Colby was. It wasn't that Alan didn't trust Megan, after all, she was his son's partner. It was just that she looked almost as horrible as Charlie had. Alan felt much safer in Colby's hands.

Thinking of Charlie produced a wave of guilt that washed over Alan Eppes. He had sent his youngest son home for a few reasons. The first few he had told Charlie – the doctor had prescribed bed rest, and Charlie was in pain. He clearly needed to be resting and starting the healing process. Charlie was also plainly exhausted, and would have had a hard time staying awake for the ride to Central. Alan had also been forthcoming by telling Charlie that he needed to know that at least one of his son's was safe. But there was more.

Alan didn't want Charlie to have to face what was going on. Because he had no idea exactly what was going on, he naturally wanted to protect Charlie by feeling everything else out first. If things were as serious as they seemed, Charlie would be unlikely to handle the situation well.

The Eppes patriarch also didn't want Charlie to see his own reaction to what was going on. A million emotions were swirling around Alan Eppes, and in their midst was anger, and a lot of it. Alan was pretty much angry at everything. He was angry at the people responsible for hurting his son. He was angry he didn't have any details about what had happened. He was angry that Charlie was blaming himself. He was angry that Charlie might have let Don down. He was angry that Don had put his younger brother in danger. He was angry at the FBI for allowing this to happen. He was angry at Don for joining the FBI. He was angry at Don for getting hurt. But most of all, he was angry at himself. He was angry that he was angry – angry that he was trying to put the blame anywhere else besides on himself.

Part of him knew that it was his fault that Don had joined the FBI. Not directly of course, but Alan had contributed to his eldest son's need to prove himself. Not that he could have stopped Don. It also wasn't that he didn't think Don should be an FBI agent. It was just that he didn't like the idea of Don's life being in danger. And tonight was exactly the reason why.

It was better that Charlie wasn't there to see his father's churning emotions, and if, God forbid, Don wasn't alive, or wasn't going to make it, that was something Charlie shouldn't see. Alan wasn't sure Charlie could handle it. He had withdrawn so far when Margaret had been sick and eventually passed, that Alan had been at a loss at what to do.

The stakes were higher now. Don had unknowingly become Charlie's lifeline, and if he were to die... Well, there was no telling what might happen to Charlie. For that matter, Alan didn't know what would become of himself. Don was one of the two things he held most precious in the world, and the other was Charlie. A father was not supposed to bury his son.

Alan was shocked at how pessimistic he had suddenly become. He'd always tried to find the silver lining in anything, and was usually one of the last to give up – a trait he'd always prided himself for having passed on to both of his boys.

"What am I thinking?" Alan muttered, but only loud enough that Megan glanced slightly in his direction. _What am I thinking? Don's a strong young man. He's physically fit, young, in good condition, and he has a lot to live for. Like Charlie. Like me. He wouldn't leave us. _

"We're almost there," Colby said quietly from the front seat. Alan had opted for the back of the non-descript FBI car that some random agent had dropped off at the hospital for Colby.

"Megan, I need to know what happened," Alan said suddenly, his stomach clenching. He was glad the words had actually come out. He was afraid that they'd be stuck in his throat forever.

Megan swiveled her head to look at him, her eyes strangely dimmed, but she seemed surprised.

"Mr. Eppes…"

"Don't get all Don-like on me. I don't want any lines about how it's an FBI investigation and you really shouldn't say. Both of my sons were injured tonight working for the FBI and I really need to know what I should be expecting when we get to the hospital."

Immediately, Alan wished he could take the words back. Not only because Megan looked like she'd been hit, a look of self-loathing passing over her face, but because he was suddenly afraid. He was back to square one – not wanting to know what kind of horrors his sons had been through earlier in the afternoon.

"Ok," Megan relented, and Alan was surprised he wasn't going to have to fight her, but she looked defeated. "But you're not going to like it."

Alan nodded. He hadn't expected to like it. "I know. Go ahead though. I have to know."

Megan sighed, then began haltingly, as if she didn't know exactly where to start. She canvassed the case quickly, giving only pertinent information as to why Charlie had been involved and why it had brought his two children to the bank to begin with. She emphasized that because the man they were going to see had been cooperating throughout the two week investigation, there had been no cause to suspect him. There had been no cause to suspect that anything would go wrong.

As gently as she could, she told him about how she and Don had suspected it was an inside job, and how Charlie had confirmed it. It had never crossed any of their minds that the man they had been liaising with all along would have been one of the inside men. She tried to gloss over the initial altercation, but Alan made her go over it slowly, so he could understand what had happened.

"He… He pulled a gun on Charlie, and both Don and I were moving to… to stop him, but he had help. A lot of it. Five other accomplices," she said slowly, clearly hoping to make things more clear. "I… I didn't get much of a chance to do anything, but Don tangled with two of them. They…they broke his ribs." Alan was startled by this revelation, but felt relieved. How bad could a few broken ribs be? Don had broken a few playing baseball in his younger days.

"And then she shot him," Megan added slowly, her voice constricted. Alan felt his stomach drop and he winced.

"What?" he asked, his voice hoarse. It wasn't that he didn't know that Don had been shot at before – even been shot - because he knew that Don had, but hearing it like this was so different. When he'd found out about the other incidents, it had always been from Don, standing in front of him. Standing in front of him very much alive.

"He had his vest on. She hit him in the vest," Megan said, hurrying to ease some of his fear.

"But why? I thought you said that you weren't expecting any trouble," Alan protested, his stomach churning, suddenly thankful to the people who had created Kevlar. Megan explained smoothly that she and Don had been at a bust earlier in the morning, and had worn their vests as a precaution. She'd taken hers off, but Don hadn't. Alan thought about that for a moment, and wondered what Charlie would make of the chances that Don just wouldn't have had time to take off his vest.

"So that's not so bad," Alan began, but the look on Megan's face told him he was jumping the gun.

"There… There's more," she said quietly. It took only a moment to explain how they'd broken Don's hand to get his gun, how he'd hit his head when he'd fallen, and how they'd locked him to the pole.

Then she began to tell Alan something that would give him nightmares for the rest of his life. She told him what they had asked of Charlie and what the stakes were. With shame in her voice, she described three more bullets in Don's vest, and the anguish in Charlie's face and voice, and the never ending struggle from Don as he tried to escape and breathe. As he tried to get to his younger brother.

"Oh God," Alan said, bile rising in the back of his throat as he imagined what kind of torture both of his boys had just suffered. For the moment, it was unfathomable, and he had to shut it out, knowing that it would need to be analyzed and dissected later. "But Charlie was shot," he said, forcing his wavering voice on. "So there must be more."

Megan nodded shortly as Colby turned into Central's parking garage, and Alan noted that Colby was listening as intently as he was, his normally tan face a shade lighter even in the dark. Clearly he hadn't heard the story yet.

With a little more light in her voice, she expressed to Alan how proud he should be of Charlie, and told him of the trap he'd set. Then she'd continued, but Alan could have filled in the blanks – the criminals would have had no real reason to keep them alive. It didn't take a genius to figure that out. As carefully as she could, Megan explained how Don had escaped his cuffs as the woman had turned her gun on Charlie, just as the FBI tactical team was arriving.

Alan could have told her the rest of the story himself because he knew Don well enough to know what his eldest son would do in a situation like that, so he wasn't surprised to hear Megan say that Don had put himself between the bullet and Charlie.

Suddenly what the doctor had said about the velocity of the bullet having slowed down, resulting in the less serious nature of Charlie's wound, made sense.

"The bullet went through Donnie first," he gasped out, not aware that he had stopped breathing.

"Yes," Megan said, suddenly sounding old and tired. "I… I am so sorry," she managed to get out as Colby turned off the car and pulled the key out of the ignition. In seconds, Megan was in tears, and Alan was out of the car, opening her door and pulling her out to hug her.

"It's not your fault. I don't blame you."

"Please, don't blame Don for what happened to Charlie. He didn't know. I swear. That was my job. To profile. I should have seen it. I'm so sorry." She was sobbing now, but her words cut straight to Alan's heart. She was afraid he would blame Don for putting Charlie in danger, and the worst part was that she was right. Not consciously of course, but somewhere, inside of him, he would have initially wanted to put this on Don. Because Don was always supposed to know better. Alan bit back the shame. There would be time for blame later.

"This is not your fault, and I don't blame Don," he told her with all the sincerity he could muster. It took a few moments, but she stopped crying finally.

"I'm sorry, we should go in," she said apologetically again, and turned to find Colby squeezing her hand tightly, a frown of worry marring his face.

"It's just that I don't know if I want to," Alan finally managed. This time it was Megan's turn to give him a hug.

Steeling himself, Alan started towards the elevator that would take them to the main hospital lobby. The ride down was silent. Colby looked as if he wanted to offer words of encouragement, but he didn't say anything. Alan was slightly grateful for the silence.

Before he even realized it, they were in the lobby, standing in front of the information desk, and for the second time that day, Alan found himself having to ask about his son from a hospital employee.

"I'm looking for my son. Donald Eppes? He was brought in by a Mercy Flight?" Alan asked tentatively, and the man at the desk, looking unconcerned typed in the name.

"Eppes? The federal agent?" he asked curiously after a moment. Alan's heart froze up and he found himself unable to answer.

"Yes," Megan said, stepping up. The receptionist immediately took in the yellow FBI letters emblazoned on the side of her jacket.

"He's in the trauma wing. Down the hall, up the yellow elevators to the second floor and turn right. You can't miss it." Alan heard the pity in the man's voice and wondered just what kind of information got passed around the hospital.

Wordlessly, they were on their way, more silence ensuing as they found the elevators and took the short trip up. When they emerged, the bright lights were almost overwhelming, and Alan almost flinched away from the red letters that read TRAUMA CENTER on the walls.

Colby's steadying hand was the only thing that kept him walking towards the small nurse's station in the middle of a fairly nice waiting room.

There were a few people here and there, all looking exhausted and upset. In the corner a woman sat in a lounge chair, a little boy asleep on her lap. She looked to have been crying. Just past her were an elderly couple, the woman's head resting on the man's as he whispered encouraging things. On the far side was a young man, his head between his hands, staring absently at the floor.

"Can I help you?" Alan was startled out of his survey of the room by the nurse who had stood to greet them, from behind her desk. She was eyeing Colby and Megan's jackets with a knowing look. "Are you here for Agent Eppes?"

"Yes we are," Megan said when Alan couldn't find any words, suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

"I'm sorry, I know you're bureau, but we won't be able to tell you any information. Only his immediate family…"

"I'm his family," Alan interrupted quickly. "I'm his father. Please, I need to know how my son is." Alan caught the brief shadow of pity that crossed her face before she schooled her features.

"We were hoping he had someone," she said with a forced smile, but Alan could tell she meant it. "Can I see some ID?"

Alan fumbled with his wallet, and finally handed her his driver's license. She looked it over carefully, then handed it back.

"I'm sorry for all the formalities, but its regulations, especially when dealing with a federal officer."

"Please," Alan said with a wave of his hand. "My son. How is he? Can I see him?"

Another look of something unreadable crossed her pleasant face. "Actually, your son's in surgery right now Mr. Eppes, and until the doctor is done, there's nothing I can tell you. You'll have to wait."

"Surgery?" Alan breathed the word out as if it was poison. "What kind of surgery?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Eppes, I don't have any details on what kind of operation they were performing. But I can tell you that your son arrived forty five minutes ago and they took him right into surgery. The best thing you can do now is wait. As soon as Dr. Welker is available, I'll let him know you're here."

"You can't tell us anything else?" Megan practically demanded. Colby reached out to sooth her and to keep the peace, but the nurse looked understanding enough.

"I don't know anything else," she promised. "I'm sorry."

So Alan Eppes was left to wait, and as he sunk down into one of the plush chairs that had been provided, probably from some generous donation, he put his head in his hands, and for the first time, allowed himself to cry, because there wasn't anything else he could do.


	13. Chapter 13

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 13 of ?

Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs and I'm not making any profit off of this…

Author's Note: Ok. Sorry you all had to wait, thanks for your reviews and your patience. You have made me smile and laugh, so thanks. Here we go again. This is the first chapter I'm not switching POV…we're going to stick with Alan for this round. And be patient with my medical story. Mom was a little too busy this weekend to help me out, so as far as I can understand, I'm sort of on track. So forgive the license I'm taking! Hope you enjoy.

* * *

The hours had passed slowly. Alan tried to figure out just how long it was that he'd been sitting in the trauma unit's waiting room. Two hours? No, it was closer to three now. One AM was approaching swiftly. And still he was waiting. Still no doctor appeared from the double doors. Still he was left to question what was left of his sanity which had slowly been slipping away since the moment Megan Reeves had pulled into his driveway.

Less than half an hour after they'd arrived at LA Central, David Sinclair had appeared, looking haggard, but pleased with himself. He'd assured Alan that the woman that had hurt his son's was dead, and that her living accomplices were not only in custody, but one was singing like a bird under the threat of being charged with accessory to murder of a federal agent. David had meant to be encouraging, but all Alan could think was that maybe the bluff wouldn't be much of a bluff. Don could very possibly be dead.

Not long after David had arrived, a nurse had appeared, carrying a clear bag with Grace Memorial's logo on it. Inside were Don's personal affects.

"I thought you might want these," she said softly, comfortingly, to Alan. He'd accepted them with as much of a smile as he could muster and started to inventory what his son had been wearing.

There was a pair of jeans, with some dark splatters that Alan could only assume were blood stains. He fought down a wave of nausea. Casual dress shoes were underneath the neatly folded jeans, and Alan set them carefully on the chair next to him. Next was a tie, but Alan's heart caught in his throat when he saw it because it wasn't Don's tie. It was his. A black tie with a simple silver design sliding down its length.

The tie had actually been a father's day gift from Charlie a few years back. Don had borrowed it a few months ago when he'd stayed over at the house one night and had left straight for the office in the morning. Evidently he'd never returned it. Part of the silver line was blotted out by more blood spatter. Alan was suddenly very glad he'd turned down Colby's offer of food. There was no dress shirt to be found in the mix, but Alan wasn't coherent enough to figure out why.

Something else had caught his attention anyway. It was the bulk of a folded Kevlar vest.

Colby and David had been talking quietly in the corner and weren't paying any attention to Alan, but Megan had been watching him carefully as he'd gone through the bag. When her eyes caught the vest, she was on her feet.

"Mr. Eppes…" she said hurriedly, moving to intercept his hand as it closed over the dark material at the bottom of the bag.

"No," he said sternly when she got close. Megan froze and he looked up at her, catching the uncertainty in her eyes. "I'm sorry Megan. I have to…" he said lamely, then tugged the vest until it came free of the bag.

"I really don't think you should look at that, sir," she said, her voice strained, but it was too late for convincing.

Alan had unfolded the vest, noting that the straps on the side, which went under Don's arms, had been cut, therefore making it possible to free him from its protection. Slowly, Alan turned the vest over to see the front of it, and his heart turned to ice as he did so.

Ever so slowly, he traced the first hole he came to, the one directly over where Don's heart should have been. The fabric was seared, its edges hard where it had melted together from the heat of the bullet, and there, inside the hole, Alan could feel the lump of metal that could have ended his son's life.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to similarly examine the other three holes, noting where each one's location was. Then, he turned the vest inside out, to see the damage from the inside.

"It did its job," Megan said quietly. "It stopped the bullets."

"I heard," Alan said, trying to make his voice sound normal, "that these things can only take so much abuse. That their integrity is compromised after so many bullets," he said with a wave of his hand, his voice on the edge of panic.

"That's true," she answered honestly. "but because the bullets were so spaced out the Kevlar didn't fail. See?" she asked, kneeling in front of him, running her hand over the inside of the vest. "No fraying. No weak spots."

Alan nodded, clutching the vest tightly in his hands, the bag on the floor forgotten with Don's wallet, FBI badge, and watch still resting in the bottom of it.

Slowly Megan put all of Don's belongings back into the bag and pulled the drawstring closed at the top. When it was clear that Alan was lost in his thoughts, she slipped back into her chair.

Alan didn't miss the look she gave the two other FBI agents – one of worry and concern, but all he could think about was Don.

The day that they'd brought Don home from the hospital had been the second happiest day of his life. The first was when he'd married Margaret. They were a young couple, eagerly starting their own family, and Don was a happy and healthy infant. And he had made Margaret so happy. She was fairly obsessed with her new baby boy and Alan would sit for hours and just watch her as she held him and talked to him.

Don was a beautiful child, and intelligent, just not in the same way that Charlie was. He'd started speaking early and had always been active. He was always getting into mischief and was constantly wandering away if not supervised.

More than once Don had given Alan a near heart attack. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

Things had significantly changed in family dynamics when Charlie was born, the third happiest day of Alan's life. Alan had been worried that Don, a healthy and happy five year old would struggle with a change so huge, but he had borne it well, and for a few years, everything had been incredibly smooth. The bumps began when they'd first discovered the gift Charlie had been given.

It was then that Alan realized that things were going to be different for his family. He'd never expected they'd turn out the way that they had though. He'd never thought he'd have a genius mathematician for a son. Nor had he thought he'd have a successful FBI agent for a son. He'd always imagined they'd be his little boys for ever. And never had he thought that their lives, especially Don's, would be so threatened by what they chose to do every day as their occupations.

Now things were going to change again and Alan wasn't sure if his family could survive another loss, not like this, not so soon after Margaret. Not Don.

When Alan finally managed to ease his grip on the flak vest in his hands, he realized more time had passed and Megan had fallen into a fitful sleep. Alan thought briefly about calling to tell Charlie that he hadn't heard anything, but he didn't have the heart to, and he sincerely hoped that Amita had gotten Charlie to go to sleep.

With his mind clouded over his worry for how Charlie might take everything that had happened, he didn't notice when the double doors opened and a tired looking doctor stepped through them.

"Mr. Eppes?"

Alan's head shot up and he nearly dropped the Kevlar vest. Hurriedly, he stood to meet the doctor, a tall African-American man with graying hair and kind brown eyes. He looked tired, but gave Alan a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"How's my son?" Alan demanded.

"You are Donald Eppes' father?" the doctor asked casually, taking in Alan's appearance.

"He is." Alan turned to find David standing to his right, his FBI badge flipped open. The doctor nodded at David.

"Of course I am."

"I'm sorry Mr. Eppes, just standard procedure for government agents. I'm Ashton Welker, and I just finished a pretty serious surgery for your son. Would you mind taking a walk with me?" he asked, gesturing towards the doors he had just come through.

"Of course," Alan said, and numbly handed the vest he was still holding to David, who squeezed his shoulder. His stomach seemed to have turned into a hard ball of misery. Dr. Welker gently took him by the elbow and guided him towards the doors. It wasn't until after they were through the doors that he started speaking.

"How much do you know about your son's injuries, Mr. Eppes?"

"It's Alan, and only what his partner told me. I knew that they flew him here on a Mercy Flight, but since the nurse told me he'd been taken into surgery, I haven't heard anything."

Dr. Welker pushed open a door into an office and gestured Alan inside. Alan paused at the door, glancing down the hall, as if he expected to see a sign telling him where his son was.

"Oh God, he's not dead, is he?" Alan asked, the words coming out in a tangled mess of fear.

"Oh no," Dr. Welker said quickly, as he pulled out a chair for Alan to sit in opposite a vast mahogany desk. "Donald came through the surgery."

"Don. We call him Don," Alan said absently. "What's wrong with him?" he asked shortly, his eyes still on the door to the office.

"Mr. Eppes, Alan, Don has sustained some fairly serious injuries. I want to be very honest with you. You're son is in grave danger right now." Once Dr. Welker was sure he had Alan's attention, he continued.

"When your son arrived, we had to take him straight into emergency surgery. His body has sustained serious trauma. The initial problem was that your son suffered blunt trauma to his chest, resulting in five broken ribs and two fractured ribs. This put serious pressure on his lungs. The bullets that were fired at his chest an stopped by the bullet proof vest he was wearing only added to the pressure and created massive bruising all over his abdomen. The bullet that struck over his heart caused some internal hemorrhaging underneath the skin, and the other bullets moved the broken bones as far as I can tell," he paused here to make sure Alan was still with him. Alan nodded slowly, only imagining what was going to come next.

"I've been told that he managed to get to his feet. That alone was enough to move all of the broken bones, but when he fell the force of the impact forced one of the broken rib bones through his right lung. The result was a full collapse of the lung. One of the bones on the left side also entered his left lung, but got hung up on another rib bone, and didn't force all the way through, leaving the lung only partially collapsed. This caused a series of internal wounds, which means a lot of internal bleeding. When Don was shot in the shoulder, it only exacerbated things by causing external blood loss as well."

Alan's throat was dry. He could only stare at Dr. Welker as he explained Don's injuries. He wanted to ask questions and demand answers, but no words would come out. Dr. Welker seemed to understand Alan's predicament and sighed softly.

"He stopped breathing numerous times on the way here and in the helicopter, the EMTs had to intabate him to keep him breathing. It's probably the only thing that saved his life. He crashed not long after that, Mr. Eppes. Upon arrival, he was unresponsive, and the only thing keeping him alive was the oxygen flow. I performed emergency surgery to stop the internal flow of blood and we were also able to get his heart beating again. We did what we could, which was to fix as much inside as possible and to move the rib bones back in place so they have a chance to heal."

Here he paused, and ran a hand over his tired face. Alan watched him closely.

"But, he's alive?" Alan managed finally when the Doctor said nothing more.

"For now, yes. I don't want to get your hopes up, Mr. Eppes. Don lost a lot of blood on his way here. We're currently running a lot of transfusions, and we've been able to fully stop the flow of blood out of the gun shot wound in his shoulder. As far as we can tell, we've stopped the bleeding inside, but right now he still has a tube down his throat, and in his chest to keep him breathing. And there are other complications. Don sustained a concussion of some severity. It looks like his head had numerous run-ins with several hard objects. The EMTs told me he regained consciousness in the chopper, but since then we've seen very little brain activity. In short, Mr. Eppes, your son is in a coma for now. His body is probably pretty upset with him."

"So you're saying that there's not much of a chance?" Alan couldn't believe those words were coming out of his mouth. He couldn't believe his eldest son was so close to death. He couldn't believe that his Donnie, always ready with a quick smile or a smart remark was so close to being gone forever.

Dr. Welker sighed and wove his hands together with his fingers.

"The next eight hours will be critical. If he survives through the night, things will be looking a little better. The main concern is that his body has simply had too much trauma and lost too much blood and will just stop functioning. It unfortunately isn't unlikely. If his body doesn't reject the oxygen through the night, and if he doesn't fight the transfusions, there's a good chance at recovery."

Alan stared wide eyed at the doctor, willing him to continue. Willing him to say that Donnie was going to be fine.

"Your son is young, and physically fit. At thirty six, he's in great shape. There are a lot of things we can't control, Mr. Eppes. The human will to live is one of them. That alone can make all the difference in the world. Tell me, does your son have anything to live for?"

Alan choked out a laugh at that, unsure why he found it funny. He swallowed hard and blinked to clear his vision that was swimming in liquid before him. "He has me and his brother. We love him very much. He… He was trying to save his brother, you see. He jumped in front of the bullet. That's why he got up. He was trying to save Charlie. And he would never leave this world until he knew Charlie was ok. And he has a wonderful job, and he's good at it. And his friends – his co-workers are good people and…" Alan trailed off. "Oh God, I can't lose him. Please, you have to do everything that you can. Please."

"I promise you that we will Mr. Eppes. We're not giving up on your son. Trust me, if he makes it through tonight, we'll have a lot more hope for tomorrow."

"Please, I have to see him." Alan knew he was begging, and he didn't care.

Dr. Welker frowned. "He's not going to look much like your son right now, Alan." His frown lightened a little. "But he is going to need encouragement. Normally it's against hospital policy, as Don is in ICU right now, but I think he's going to need all the help he can get. I'll tell you what, if you promise to be quiet, and just sit with him, I'll let you see him and stay unless I think it's adversely affecting him. Ok?"

Alan nodded gratefully, and as he stood, he found his knees felt weak. He forced himself to be strong. _You'll be no good to Donnie if you can't stay on your own two feet._

A few minutes later, Dr. Welker left him outside the door to Don's room. The blinds were pulled shut on the windows, so Alan couldn't see Don and it took all his will power to open the door and walk in.

The room was dark, lit by the soft glow of the whirring oxygen machine and the various medical monitors that beeped softly. There, in the center of the room lay his eldest child, his firstborn.

Don looked so still lying there that Alan's breath caught in his throat and he wondered for a moment if Don was just simply dead. Then he caught the soft rise and fall of Don's chest, so rhythmic that there was no way to deny that a machine was running that part of the show.

Slowly, Alan forced his feet to move, taking him closer to the bed. Don's eyes were closed, dark bruises around his eyes, covering even his eye lids, a sign of concussion, stark against his unnaturally pale skin. Don's head was wrapped in a thin white bandage, red on one side from a little bit of blood soaking through. His face was covered with an oxygen mask, a tube running down his throat.

Alan's eyes trailed down over his son's neck onto his bare chest. They had apparently forgone the hospital gown, and Alan could see why. Practically Don's whole chest was covered in bandages, the white gauze covering his abdomen and chest. What Alan could see of Don's skin was a multitude of colors, ranging from black and purple, to a sickly shade of yellow and green. The bruises alone, sure to be worse under the bandages that tightly wrapped Don's torso, turned Alan's stomach. A thin hospital blanked was pulled up until it reached his chest mid way, where a tube poked out of a bandage. It was the chest tube the doctor had mentioned, inserted directly into Don's lung, where it would stay until the lung was able to heal and inflate itself on its own.

Don's left shoulder was also heavily bandaged, but there was no blood peeking through, for which Alan was grateful. His right hand was in a cast up past his wrist and Alan vaguely remembered Megan telling him that one of the men had broken Don's hand to get rid of the gun Don had.

The thought of a gun caused Alan to drag his eyes back up to Don's collar bone.

Don never talked of being injured on the job. Alan knew he had been, had even once received a call from Billy Cooper when Don was working Fugitive Recovery about an incident Don had had, but in general, he'd been left in the dark.

Don had become a private person when it became apparent that the details of his life were sometimes over looked. Alan had always thought it was a defense mechanism. Since he and Margaret had so often missed out on parts of Don's life, Don had in turn hid his life from them, obviously assuming that it wasn't important to them, and when they deemed it important, it was one thing he could hold over their head. When he'd offered it freely, he'd been ignored, and when they wanted it, he'd denied them.

Alan also knew Don was so private to protect them. Margaret had a hard time with her eldest son in mortal danger from his every day job, but out of respect, hadn't harped on him about it. Alan hadn't been able to hold his tongue, or his fear, so he had always ridden Donnie about the danger he was in. In return, to keep his parents from worrying more, Don glossed over the danger and the situations that put him in harm's way.

Therefore, the first time Alan had learned that Don had been shot in the line of work, it had been an accident. Don had been showering at the house one afternoon after work, and Alan had popped into the bathroom to grab the Drano when he'd heard the water go off. Don had been standing there, towel about his waist, shaving when Alan had come in.

Don had been startled and Alan had too because it was the first time he'd seen the round scar under Don's collarbone. An argument had ensued, followed by tears and many apologies from both sides after Don had explained that he'd been shot in Albuquerque, and hadn't wanted to worry his parents or Charlie, so when it hadn't been life threatening, he'd opted to hide it. Alan no longer wondered why, even on the hottest days that LA could serve up, Don never took off his shirt.

And there, in the warm hospital room, the round scar stood out, even against the white skin. It seemed to be the only thing pink on Don's body.

In exhaustion, Alan pulled a chair to Don's bedside, and sat, reaching up for Don's hand. He carefully threaded through the IV wire and stayed clear of the electrodes that were monitoring his heart and his breathing, but finally, he was clutching Don's left hand.

The skin was cold and clammy, but Alan held on, and slowly, he began to rub light circles over the top of Don's hand. Then, with only the whirring oxygen and the beeping machinery for an audience, he began to speak.

And until he feel asleep from exhaustion, he told Don how much he loved him and how much he and Charlie needed him, over and over again.


	14. Chapter 14

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 14 of ?

Disclaimer: Don't sue me. I don't own this and I'm not making any money off of it…

Author's Note: Sorry it's taken me so long to update… Had some crazy boy problems this past week that really messed up my life lol. But, that's more information than you guys probably want! Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!

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Charlie was warm. Not too warm. Not hot. Just warm. Pleasantly so. His eyes were closed and he had the sensation of being wrapped in a tight, comfortable cocoon. Under his closed eye lids he saw red, and knew that the sun was up and streaming through a window, making him feel lazy and sleepy.

As Charlie laid there, his brain slowly began to turn and he briefly felt like something was wrong.

_Something's not right. I'm not in my room. Why am I not in my room?_ It certainly smelled like the old Craftsman house that he owned. And the direction of the sun creeping in through the windows would be consistent with the window in his room, which he could tell even with his eyes closed, but something wasn't quite right.

The bed seemed to be the wrong size. A little too small maybe. And it didn't smell right. Despite these problems, Charlie was still loathe to open his eyes. He was so tired. He couldn't remember being so tired that he hadn't even had the energy to open his eyes.

His whole body felt like a block of lead.

Dismissing the mystery of where he was, Charlie had the sensation of sinking back down, further into the mattress. Sleep was just about to claim him again when his always active brain supplied to him what the strange smell was.

_Smells like Don_.

For a moment, Charlie's stomach muscles tensed, like they had always done when he worried. Charlie swallowed hard. What was wrong? Something felt wrong.

Charlie tried to drag his brain out of it's foggy stupor to figure out what was bothering him. Something about Don. _Why can't I think? Am I supposed to be worrying about Don?_

Then, it all came crashing back to him.

His nice, tight cocoon was shattered.

The bank. The woman with the gun. Her threats. His fingers moving like lightening over the keys. Trying to stop her from shooting Don. His deception. Her anger. Don getting up despite being hurt. Don putting himself between Charlie and the bullet. Falling. Both of them falling. And blood. A lot of blood. And Don, not breathing.

There was nothing in Charlie's stomach, but he felt the urge to throw up.

His eyes flew open, and he squinted in the morning sun, coming straight through the window, the blinds open to let the light in. In panic, Charlie rolled sideways to get off of the bed.

It was the wrong thing to do as he rolled onto his left side. Pain exploded through his arm and he cried out in agony as fire ripped up through his shoulder and down, all the way into his hand.

"Oh my goodness! Charlie, are you ok?"

It took Charlie a few seconds to comprehend that he was not alone in the room. When the black spots began to clear from his vision, and he found himself perched on the edge of the bed, his good hand clenching the bedspread, he looked up to see Amita.

She looked like his cry of pain had awakened her. She was sitting in the old rocking chair that his mother had left in the room and, as far as Charlie could tell, Amita had slept there all night.

Her shiny dark hair was flat on one side, the curl hanging limply. Her clothes were wrinkled and, although she had sounded alert, she looked as though she was still half asleep. But her face showed a huge amount of worry and concern as she looked at him.

If the situation hadn't been so serious, Charlie probably would have laughed at how typical this was of their relationship – even though they'd slept in the same room together, they'd been nearly miles apart.

"Yeah, I just… I guess I forgot about…" Charlie trailed off at Amita's sympathetic look. "Dad didn't call," he said suddenly, his stomach turning to ice.

Amita frowned at this revelation, and she nodded solemnly in assent.

"No, I don't think he did," she said in a voice so quiet that Charlie had to strain to hear her. She was reaching for Charlie's cell phone which lay on the nightstand next to the bed. She glanced at it once, then handed it to Charlie. No missed calls. No voicemail. No text message. Nothing.

Charlie swallowed hard as the guilt began to creep up inside of him. He had slept a whole night through and for all he knew, Don was dead.

"He's dead," Charlie said, his voice sounding strangely strangled. "And Dad didn't want to tell me on the phone."

"No! Charlie!" Amita's voice held and edge of horror and Charlie realized he'd spoken aloud. He hadn't meant to. He thought he'd only been thinking those thoughts. "No Charlie, I won't believe that."

"I am so sorry. I didn't mean… I just, I'm so…" Charlie trailed off. What was he? _Sorry. I'm so sorry that I didn't save him. I'm scared. I'm terrified. How am I supposed to live without Don? Who will take care of Dad? Who will take care of me? I just can't do this. I can't. _

"Charlie, stop. Don't apologize again. You're scared, that's to be expected," Amita got up out of the rocker and stretched and for the first time, Charlie looked around the room.

"Don's room. That's why the bed seemed small. How did I get in here?" Charlie asked, fighting down his thoughts, boxing up his emotions to be dealt with later.

"You wanted to come in here. Don't you remember? You wouldn't go to your own room last night," Amita said off hand, searching through the messenger bag she'd been carrying last night.

"I did?"

"Yeah. You wouldn't go in your own room. You really don't remember?"

Charlie thought about that for a moment, trying to think back. He remembered his father sending him home from the hospital. He remembered riding in Don's SUV. But he didn't recall much after that.

"Don't worry about it," Amita said, breaking into his train of thought. She had obviously found what she was looking for, two small orange bottles with white caps – typical prescription bottles. She handed them to him. "I'll go get some water. The doctor said take two every hour for the pain," she said with a gesture at the first one. "And one of those every six hours to prevent infection. And put this on," she added, handing him the sling he'd worn home from the hospital.

Charlie took it from her numbly and stared at it as she left the room, in search of a glass of water. Charlie set the sling down and glanced down at the bottles in his hand, realizing then that he was still in his clothes from the day before, though somewhere along the way he'd gained a new shirt. He vaguely recalled them cutting the other one away to get to the bullet wound in his shoulder.

This sent a new wave of nausea through him as he thought about Don.

He regarded the cell phone lying on the bed next to him and his good hand twitched out to grab it. He was halfway through the process of finding his father on speed dial when his fingers suddenly didn't work.

He couldn't bring himself to finish. He couldn't bring himself to call. He couldn't hear his father say, 'I'm sorry Charlie, but your brother didn't make it.'

_Who are you kidding Charlie?_ He asked himself._ Dad isn't going to be so gentle. He's going to be thinking the same thing you're thinking – why weren't you faster? Why didn't you save your brother from being shot? How could you just stand there and let Don get in between you and that bullet? Why didn't you figure out earlier that there was an inside man? None of this would have happened if you had. Don wouldn't be dead. _

The cell phone fell numbly from Charlie's grasp, bouncing slightly on the bed.

He knew he was being foolish. He knew that his father would never blame him for what happened. The rational part of his brain knew that this was not his fault. He knew that he hadn't killed Don or been responsible for it. He even knew that Don might very well still be alive. And he also knew that his older brother would be horribly angry with him if he knew that Charlie was blaming himself for what had happened. He would yell. He would badger. He would ask Charlie how someone so smart could be so stupid. And all the anger would really be about love. It would really be about Don not wanting Charlie to be hurt, especially on his account.

All Charlie wanted was for Don not to be hurt too.

Charlie's thoughts were interrupted when Amita appeared in the doorway with a glass of water. She handed it to him silently, then sat down on the bed next to him and gave him a hug, careful to avoid his arm as the glass trembled in his hand.

"Do you want me to call?" she asked compationatly after a moment, after she'd assured herself that Charlie had taken his prescriptions. Her hand lay over his cell phone on the bed.

"I… I don't know."

Silence stretched between them and Charlie regarded her for a moment, seeing that she looked exhausted and the skin around her eyes was drawn, dark circles lining underneath. Her hand curled tightly around the cell phone and the released it. She was as worried about Don as he was. And she was worried abut him.

"I just need a shower, then I'll call," he promised her half-heartedly, then got up and left her there, sitting on Don's bed.

It was harder than he thought it would be to get his shirt off, and his arm felt stiff. The pain medication seemed to kick in quickly enough, but there were still jolts of pain. Charlie vaguely remembered the doctor telling him to keep the bandages dry.

Thus, showering became exceedingly difficult. Standing in the hot water, steam billowing around him, Charlie sagged against the wall, his left arm through the shower curtain up to his shoulder. He leaned forward, his head touching the tile that was still cool despite the heat of the water.

And there, in the solace of the pounding stream, Charlie's bitter tears mixed with the shower water. He indulged in his pain, both physical and emotional for close to ten minutes, but finally forced himself to turn the water off.

Now he had to be strong. Now he had to face reality. He dried and dressed the best he could, but couldn't get his clean shirt on over his head, so he decided to ask Amita for help.

Emerging from the bathroom, he heard her still in Don's room. When he poked his head inside, he found her remaking the bed. She'd fixed her hair and found one of Don's FBI hoodies to put on. It was a little too large for her, but she didn't seem to care.

She looked up when she heard him approach and offered him a smile. "Come on, I'm going to change those bandages," she said. Charlie hesitated. Something seemed off. She seemed happy. How could she be happy in a time like this?

"Amita…?" he asked, searching for answers, but she led him to the bed and began to unwrap the wound, consulting a piece of paper the doctor had given Charlie before he'd left the hospital.

"You need to call the hospital to set you up with a visiting nurse service because they need to monitor this," she told him cheerfully as she discarded the old, bloodied bandages and produced new ones.

Charlie looked down at the hole in his arm, the skin around it discolored and puckered, and he swallowed hard, then grit his teeth as she firmly wound a new bandage around it after having satisfied herself that nothing looked infected. She tried to be gentle, but the pain was overwhelming, so instead Charlie calculated the length of the bandage that Amita was using.

"Here," she said, producing a shirt from out of nowhere. It was one of Charlie's button downs – a green one that he favored and Charlie gaped at her. "I thought that buttoning might be easier than trying to get it over your head. Come on, no time to waste," she said, almost hurriedly as she helped him tug it on and began to button it.

"Amita! What's wrong with you?" Charlie asked, frustration at her cheerful state and hurried behavior seeping through.

"We have to get to the hospital," she said quietly.

Charlie's heart caught in his throat and he forced his eyes up from where they were on her hands as they continued to button his shirt, up to her face. Her eyes were shining, watery from unshed tears, but there was a smile on her face.

"What?" he asked, incredulously, and that one word held a million questions.

"I called your Dad's cell, but it was off, so I tried Megan next. Hers was off too, but I got lucky on the third time and David answered. They're still up at the hospital and your Dad was just about to call you. Don's alive and he made it through the night, which is apparently a really good thing. Your Dad would like you to come as soon as possible."

For all the world, Charlie felt like screaming, and crying, and laughing all at the same time, but instead he just smiled, the first real smile since yesterday afternoon when a man had pulled a gun on him.


	15. Chapter 15

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 15 of ?

Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs and I'm not making any money off of this.

Author's Note: For some reason, this chapter was very hard for me to write, so I'm sorry if it's a little choppy. I hope you all had a wonderful Fourth of July holiday…

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Alan Eppes paced restlessly in the waiting room. He had reflected ten minutes earlier that he hated it when people paced. That didn't seem to stop him from pacing though.

Don paced a lot when he was worried. Charlie paced when he was trying to explain a math equation. Margaret had never paced. They boys must have gotten it from him. It was a trait he wished he hadn't passed on. After all, he hated it when people paced.

"Mr. Eppes, why don't you sit down?" David Sinclair asked. Alan paused in his pacing, glancing up at David. David was perched in one of the chairs a few feet from where he was standing, and looked tired. Beside David and Alan, the waiting room was empty. David had ordered Megan home for rest and Colby had gone home to shower, then was headed into the office to make sure that the office was still being run by someone competent. David had stayed through the night, even in the long hours where he'd not been told any information.

After Alan had gone back with the doctor, no one had spoken to Don's crack team of agents for some time. Finally, a nurse had taken pity on Megan's terribly despondent look and had gone to find Dr. Welker.

In retrospect, Alan felt guilty. His own need to see his son and touch him had over ridden every other brain function he'd had, which led to him completely disregarding the fact that Don's friends and work family might want to know what was going on.

Even if he had thought about it, Alan had to admit to himself that he probably wouldn't have wanted to drag himself away. He'd sat with Don through the night, and somewhere around four AM, he'd fallen asleep. He'd spent his time telling Don stories, pleading with him, and saying some things he'd never said before. Actually, he'd told Don a lot of things he'd never said before.

He'd told Don how genuinely proud of him he was. He'd told Don how sorry he was for all of the baseball game's he'd missed when Don was little. He admitted how he'd been overwhelmed dealing with a genius child and another rather rebellious one. Then he'd explained that he always had understood why Don had always gotten into trouble. And he'd apologized for having to send Charlie to high school with Don.

Alan had told Don how much he'd missed him when he'd left for Quantico and how, when Don had graduated, he'd been so proud he could barely speak. And then he said how he'd prayed every night that Don would be safe – that Don would be protected.

Then he'd started to tell Don how much he needed him. He thanked his eldest son for the support he'd given to the family when Margaret had passed. He explained that Don had provided the only sanity he'd had during that time. He hadn't been able to handle Charlie, and though he had feared Don couldn't either, he'd been proud to see that Don had. He'd tried to remind Don how important he was to Charlie. How vital he was to the survival of the Eppes family.

It was hard to put it all into words, but Alan had tried. Charlie had always idolized Don, but no matter how many times Alan had told Don that, his hard-shelled son had shrugged it off. As far as Don had always been concerned, everything he did in life was mediocre. It was a complete lie. Don had been more than capable at everything he ever did. But Don's doubts, probably formed in the shadow of Charlie's gifts, had always led to Don being unable to believe the fact that Charlie actually did look up to him.

When Charlie was younger, he'd always wanted to be Don. It hadn't always been easy. Don had been denied a lot as a child, but so had Charlie, though Don was most likely less aware.

When Don had started playing baseball, Charlie had instantly wanted to play too. At first Alan had thought it was a good idea, but Margaret had said no immediately. Alan hadn't understood at first. Charlie had been crushed. He only wanted to do what his big brother did. But Margaret had been adamant. And as time passed, Alan had finally understood. Baseball had become Don's refuge. It was something he was good at that Charlie wasn't. It was a part of his life that wasn't encroached upon by his brother.

Alan had left that part out when he'd been talking to Don, while his son lay so still on the hospital bed. He didn't want any guilt to shadow Don. All he wanted was his precious son back.

Sometime after four, Alan had fallen asleep, the exhaustion from worry taking its final toll. He'd been awoken several times after that by nurses and doctors coming and going. Dr. Welker had been in two or three times, but Alan had lost count. More than anything, he'd lost track of what time it was.

Some time later, Alan had been jarred out of his fitful sleep by Dr. Welker. With little or no preamble, he'd awoken Alan and had gently, but firmly told Alan that he'd have to leave.

"Is there a problem?" Alan had asked quickly, his eyes darting to Don's still form, his eyes searching for something wrong, trying to shake the cobwebs from his mind.

"Mr. Eppes, I need you to leave." Dr. Welker's voice brokered no argument. Alan's heart rate had jumped as his mind turned over. Dr. Welker must have seen the panic in his eyes, and he'd reached out. Gently putting his hand on Alan's shoulder, he guided Alan towards the door. "We need to examine Don and deal with some minor complications from the surgery."

At this point, Dr. Welker had managed to get Alan out of the ICU room that held his beautiful son, but Alan's head was craned over his shoulder, staring at the closing door.

"Don't panic Alan, like I told you last night, if Don made it through the night, things were going to be a lot better. Don's made it through the night and that's a great sign. But now you need to let us do our jobs. Try not to worry Alan, your son's in good hands."

Alan had found himself at a loss for words. Dr. Welker had left him in the hands of a capable nurse, who had escorted him out of the ICU and back into the waiting room. Before she'd ushered him through the double doors, and back to a world of waiting, she had smiled up at him.

"He's pulling a 48 hour, and should go home, but you're son has him perked," she said quietly, motioning back down the hall to where Dr. Welker had disappeared, back into Don's room. "Don't worry, he's just taking every precaution, and don't let him know I said it, but as far as we can tell, your son is out of immediate danger."

Her words had partially dispelled the growing sense of terror Alan had felt since his rude-awakening and subsequent removal from Don's room minutes before. He'd still been trying to figure out if he'd somehow missed one of the medical monitors freaking out, or if he'd missed Don stopping breathing. Now it just seemed that Dr. Welker was simply being overly thorough with his care of Don, and for that Alan was incredibly grateful.

After having caught David up on what little he knew, it occurred to him that he needed to call Charlie. A quick check of the time revealed that it was close to nine in the morning, and Alan blanched at the thought, hoping Charlie was still asleep, hoping that he wasn't at home waiting, afraid of what his father's silence meant.

He was just fumbling in his pocket to find his cell phone that Don had bought him several years earlier as a Christmas present and a general hint to become more progressive, when David's phone rang.

Although it was Charlie's name on the caller ID, it turned out to be Amita. After a brief conversation in which David excitedly told her that Don was still alive, Alan was left to wait.

He hated waiting. He hated waiting more than he hated pacing.

Alan thought staring at the double doors, waiting for Dr. Welker to appear, might speed things up, but soon he reckoned it to be something closer to the saying that a watched pot never boils.

Just as he was about to go up to the nurse's station to demand any sort of answers to questions he had yet to come up with, besides the most obvious, if Don was still alive, Charlie and Amita arrived.

"Dad?" Charlie's voice sounded small, but hopeful, and Alan stood immediately to greet his son. An overwhelming need to suddenly cry spread through Alan, but he bit back the tears and enveloped his youngest child in a tight hug, careful not to squeeze the arm that was so carefully wrapped and placed in a sling across Charlie's chest.

Alan found himself unable to let go. He was so grateful just to be able to hold Charlie in his arms, to be able to touch something tangible, that he didn't want the feeling to ever go away. Charlie seemed to need the physical touch too, because he was clinging to his father in a way he hadn't done since he was small, afraid of thunderstorms in the dark or of the bully's at school.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever, but Charlie broke the spell. With desperation in his voice, he spoke finally. "Dad? Is Don ok?"

Alan slowly disentangled himself from Charlie and pushed his curly-haired son back a bit, two hands on his shoulders as Alan examined Charlie's appearance.

"Don's alive," he said quietly, keeping judgment, fear, and worry from his voice in a way only a parent could. His eyes slowly took in Charlie's appearance. His son was clean and dressed in fresh clothes, but his skin was pale, and the skin still drawn from stress and fear, but Alan saw no signs of pain.

It was Charlie's eyes that bothered Alan. They were haunting. In the dark depths there was a clear sign of absolute fear. Even when Margaret had been sick, Alan had never seen this look from Charlie. Instead, Charlie had retreated into his numbers, and had eternally hoped that if he'd ignored what was wrong with his mother, it would simply go away. Alan was both relieved and frightened to see that this was not the case with Don. Charlie had taken the full reality of the situation in. He'd been there to see Don hurt and if last night had been any sort of clue, felt at least partially responsible for what had happened.

For a moment Alan wondered how any of them were going to make it through this.

"He's alive? Can I see him? Please?" Charlie was begging now, tears welling in his eyes, making them shiny and huge. Alan rubbed Charlie's arm comfortingly.

"I don't know Charlie. I was with him most of the night, but his doctor, Dr. Welker, asked me to leave about an hour ago." As the words came out of his mouth, he saw the spike in concern in Charlie's eyes. "The nurse assured me that it was just to examine him and to check for complications from the surgery," Alan added quickly, to try to stem the flow of terror that Charlie must have been feeling.

Alan had always imagined that Don might be hurt, but he'd never thought about how he and Charlie would have to deal with it. He'd never imagined having to look at Charlie and see this fear and worry.

"Dad, will you tell me? Please? I want to know everything."

Alan stared at him for a moment, confused. This happened often enough. Alan was often lost when Charlie spoke, but usually it was because his mathematician son had launched into some mathematical principle that he simply couldn't get his mind around. But ever so often, it seeped into other parts of their lives.

"What Charlie?"

"I want to know everything that's wrong with Don. And don't leave anything out."

Alan hesitated. He briefly reflected that he himself didn't really want know everything that Dr. Welker had told him. He briefly reflected that he wished he hadn't seen the tube running down Don's throat, or the one protruding from his chest. He wished he hadn't seen the bruises, or that he'd felt absolutely no response from his son, who lay so impossibly still, surrounded by tubes and wires and electrodes and stark white.

Charlie caught the hesitation. "Dad, I'm not a child anymore. I was there with Don. I watched him get shot. I watched a bullet go through his arm and into mine. Are you listening? I have to know! You have to tell me now!" Through the tirade, Charlie's voice level went up in elevation, rising to a pitch that Alan was only accustomed to hearing when his sons were fighting. It caught him off guard.

Charlie rarely raised his voice. He was emotional, but Don was the more volatile of the two. To top it off, Charlie had hardly ever raised his voice to his father. And the look on Charlie's face was a wild one.

Alan gaped at Charlie for a moment, and Charlie blinked once or twice, his good hand on his ear, a nervous habit Alan was used to seeing when Charlie was agitated. The nurses were staring, and David was on his feet, unsure if he should intervene.

"Dad, I'm so sorry," Charlie said suddenly, then the words began to tumble out of his mouth. "I'm so sorry. I just can't stop thinking about it. All I see is that one bullet and the blood and Don, falling. And I couldn't do anything. My feet were stuck on the ground. And then we were lying on the floor, and he wasn't breathing. And there was blood everywhere, and I was holding him. Then they took him. They took him out of my arms, and I couldn't breathe either. And then no one told me anything. I thought he was dead. I can't do this. I can't. I need him. Dad, please, I need him. Tell me he's going to be ok, please, tell me he's going to come back and be Don, and play basketball with me. And watch games at the house. And yell at me for doing stupid things. And fight with me about working for the FBI. Please Dad, tell me."

Charlie was just short of in tears, and Alan thought his own heart was ripping in two. He hadn't thought that possible. He thought the moment Megan had told him that the boys were injured, and he'd learned the extent of Don's injuries, that his heart would simply never work again, because it had shattered. But he found he was wrong. Over the night, it had sewn itself back up, and now it was ripping to shreds again.

Alan held Charlie, who had fallen into his chest. He whispered encouragement into his son's ear, promising all sorts of things that he knew he might never be able to fulfill, including Don's full recovery. He would have told Charlie anything he wanted to hear to erase the pain and the suffering that his son was going through.

Eventually Charlie calmed down a bit and pushed away from Alan. His eyes were rimmed in red, but he seemed more stable, though the haunted look was still in his eyes.

"Please Dad, I really do want to know," he said quietly, this time a bit more stable.

Amita, who'd been standing off to the side, now moved a little closer, and Alan turned to smile at her, surprised to find her wearing one of Don's old FBI sweatshirts from his Quantico days. She gave him a wane smile, obviously intent to hear whatever he was going to tell Charlie, so Alan motioned for them both to sit, and caught sight of the prescription bottles, tight in Amita's hands, and was grateful to her for looking out for his son.

Slowly, and with as much detail as he could offer, Alan explained Don's condition to Charlie, Amita, and David, who'd already heard most of it, the way Dr. Welker had explained it to him.

Charlie got paler as Alan spoke.

"Listen to me though, Don was alive this morning. Dr. Welker promised me that if he made it through the night, his chances were a whole lot better. He didn't reject the oxygen and his body is still functioning. These are good things." Alan found that his voice wasn't as convincing as he hoped it would be, but Charlie and Amita seemed to take comfort in his words.

Alan was just about to launch into another, more persuasive speech about how stubborn Don was when Dr. Welker, looking ever more tired that he had last night, appeared in the double doors.

"Mr. Eppes?" he called softly. Alan felt his heart seize up for a moment, and then turned to face Dr. Welker. The soft smile on Dr. Welker's face eased most of Alan's fears. "If you have a moment, can you come back to my office?"

"Of course. This is my youngest son," Alan said quickly, reaching down for Charlie's good hand. Charlie gripped his hand tightly, and Alan squeezed back reassuringly. "Whatever you're going to tell me, Charlie needs to hear too."

"Of course. It's nice to meet you, Dr. Eppes. I'm a huge fan of your work." Alan knew he must have looked surprised, but was glad to see Charlie's face beam in sudden pleasure, a smile almost reaching his eyes. "One of my nurse's made the connection for me. I studied mathematics as a minor during my undergrad years," Welker said, motioning for them to follow him through the doors. He put one hand on Charlie's good shoulder and smiled at Charlie, who animatedly began to ask where Welker had done his undergrad studies.

Alan suddenly felt relief that he was not alone in this. He not only had Don's FBI team, but he had Charlie, and he now had another helping hand. It turned out that Dr. Welker might be the best medicine Charlie could get, especially if he could keep Charlie a little distracted, and more importantly, if he could save Don's life.


	16. Chapter 16

Title: The Fury of the Wind

Author: Windimere Wellen

Part: 16 of ?

Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs and I'm poor. You won't get anything from me.

Author's Note: Once again, sorry for the wait. My life sometimes just simply spirals out of control… I hope you can all forgive me and that this chapter doesn't disappoint…

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Charlie couldn't remember a time where he'd felt so miserable. He constantly felt like tears were just going to cascade out of his eyes, and he would never be able to stop them if they did. His chest was constricted, to the point where breathing seemed pointless even if it was possible. And his heart was simply broken. He felt like there was nothing left in the world for him – that nothing could possibly go right after so much had gone so wrong.

Charlie loved his world of numbers because it was neat. In Charlie's world, everything was solvable. There was an equation for everything. There was a law or a rule or a theory that answered each question. Math was elemental to life. It was in everything he did and saw. Math explained everything and solved everything. Occasionally, some mathematical problems would take longer to solve, and there was back tracking, and reworking of solutions, but in the end a solution would present itself logically.

The problem was that the current situation was not being solved. It was not a neat math equation that made sense. Charlie had tried to make it make sense, tried to force the issue, but he'd failed.

Back in the bank, he had assumed that logically, since the woman had said that he had a task to do to save his brother, that once he had completed the task, she would keep her word, and let Don be. Charlie wasn't naïve. While he'd been under that pressure, the rational part of his brain, the part that worked more like Don's, told him that there was no way out of the situation they were in.

So Charlie had formed a new equation. He had reworked the problem, and put the ball in his own court. He had tried to bypass that woman's equation to make one of his own. But still, it had failed.

Larry had once told him that when he was dealing with people, the answers to problems were never elegant. He had reinforced that concept when he'd been warning Charlie about that fact that being able to predict things was not the same as being able to control things, right before Charlie's equations had placed Don and his team in the line of fire during the Charm School Boys case.

Charlie was still trying to rework an equation to solve the current problem. That problem was that he didn't like the truth he was faced with.

Dr. Welker's prognosis of Don had been very guarded. He had been encouraging that Don had survived the night and had made sure to point out that all of the internal bleeding had stopped. He said that Don's body was still functioning on its own except for the oxygen. He had even said that a recovery was now in the picture.

But there were other concerns. Don's body wasn't responding well to the oxygen. It was taking it, but Don was fighting the tube down his throat, even in his completely unconscious state. Every now and then, his muscles would contract, trying to expel the tube. It was impossible to do, but it was taking a toll on the new stitches from the earlier surgery. The other difficulty lay in the fact that Don was showing no signs of waking at all.

Dr. Welker had once again been careful when discussing this part of the problem. He started out by explaining that due to the nature of Don's injuries, his body was past the point of severe exhaustion, and that a natural response was for his body to begin its healing process, and the easiest way to do that was to conserve energy, which would contribute to Don's lack of consciousness.

However, Charlie soon learned that Don's brain function was minimal, and that he was showing very little response to any stimuli.

"This isn't that rare," Dr. Welker had said plainly, in a confident voice. "It could be a matter of hours before Don wakes up. Or, it could be days or weeks. This could also turn into an extended coma. We won't be able to tell just yet. Don's going to have to answer those questions for us."

What Charlie had gleaned from his meeting with Dr. Welker was that Don's body had sustained terrible trauma. And there was a good chance that his brother would never be the same again. Alan on the other hand had decided to take things positively. He had decided to focus on the 'matter of hours' idea, and had confidently told both Charlie and Dr. Welker that he had no doubt that his Donnie was simply "sleeping off his exhaustion."

Charlie hadn't been so convinced. He had wanted to know what the worst case scenario was. Alan had been upset, angry even, but Charlie had to know. Dr. Welker looked hesitant, but Charlie had pushed, and that had driven Alan from the room. In retrospect, Charlie felt guilty, but he wanted to know what to prepare himself for.

"He could be brain dead from lack of oxygen, from the blunt head trauma, or from his seizure and subsequent crash upon arrival. He could remain in a vegetative state indefinitely. He might awaken but have severe brain damage. Or the damage could be less. He might not be able to speak, he might not be able to walk or use his limbs properly. He might have lost his vision. His body may simply give up still. The trauma may have proven too much and his organs may just give up one by one. If he does awake, he might not remember you, or who he is." The list had gone on. Dr. Welker had stopped several times, his words halting, but Charlie had pushed him, demanding answers, and had only stopped short of threatening the doctor by reminding himself that Don's life was in his hands.

"But Charlie, you have to listen to me," he had added after he'd finished his list, as Charlie shook in his chair. "None of that is definitely going to happen. Not unless you give up hope. Not unless Don gives up, and from what your father has told me, Don isn't exactly a quitter."

Charlie had nodded mutely, then meekly asked if he could see Don. Dr. Welker had nodded solemnly, and led him into the hall, and left him outside of Don's room.

It was there that Charlie was trying to figure out how to fix the situation he found himself in. But math was not helping.

The door in front of him was closed, but the blinds to the room were open just enough that Charlie could see in.

The room was dark, lit by machines, creating a warm, even inviting look. Charlie shuddered at the thought, wondering how a room that seemed so evil, could look comfortable. He couldn't see Don. At least not Don's torso and head. He could just make out the shapes that were most likely Don's legs, underneath a standard white hospital blanket. His father blocked the rest of the view.

Charlie felt another wave of guilt wash over him, knowing that he had behaved badly earlier. He should never have tried to make his father listen to what might happen to Don.

_Why couldn't you leave it alone Charlie? Dr. Welker was just giving Dad some hope, just telling him that now it was a waiting game. True he said that they couldn't tell anything yet, and that Don certainly wasn't out of danger, but he had seemed so hopeful. And he had encouraged Dad. And I just broke it into a million pieces._

Unconsciously, Charlie's hand moved of its own accord, reaching out to grip the doorknob, its smooth surface feeling oddly numbing.

Charlie froze and had the overwhelming urge to run away. Surely no one would be surprised to find that he'd fled back to his garage and his chalkboards. Surely no one would be shocked to hear he'd returned to P vs. NP. _Surely no one will blame me_.

Wrong. Everyone would blame him. No one would understand how he could ignore his mother in the hospital, only to turn around and less than two years later, ignore his precious older brother as he too walked the fine line between life and death. No one would understand why Charlie thought it would be ok to hide in his numbers rather than sit by his brother's side and encourage him to live. No one would be able to handle that. Least of all himself.

With a death grip on the door, Charlie realized that for now he would have to put math aside. No equation was going to save Don's life. No equation was going to take away the hurt inside. No equation would answer his questions about why Don had taken that final bullet. No equation would be able to take the place of the love between brothers.

So Charlie turned the doorknob and pushed the door open gently, the blinds banging softly against the glass. Alan looked up quickly and what Charlie saw nearly broke his resolve.

His father was crying. His gentle face was wet with tears, and Charlie would have been hard pressed to miss the death grip that his father had on Don's hand. Instantly, Alan was wiping at his eyes, trying to erase the sign of weakness, but it was too late. Charlie had seen into his father's tortured soul, and it was something he would never forget.

"Dad…" he said, trailing off, approaching slowly, though he wanted to run to his father.

"Charlie, I…" Alan trailed off. "It's just that I'm so tired, and…"

"Dad, I'm so sorry," Charlie said, kneeling in front of Alan, and taking his father's free hand, still damp from tears. "I'm sorry I did that back there. I shouldn't have."

"No, don't apologize Charlie. You need to quantify, I understand."

"Dad, you aren't giving up, are you? You wouldn't give up on Don?" Charlie asked, panic rising in his chest, his eyes still on his father, unable to look at his brother's still form. His father looked so much older. So much more tired.

"No Charlie, never. I need you boys more than anything else in the world. You're my life. Both of you. And I couldn't live without either of you. And you better believe I'm not letting Donnie go anywhere. We're going to make him fight, and you're going to help."

His father's words were so earnest that Charlie found himself nodding eagerly.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Alan disentangled his hand from Charlie's, and placed it under his youngest son's chin, raising Charlie's head.

"Charlie, sooner or later you have to face Don. So why don't you start now?" The suggestion was soft, and Charlie blinked in surprise. He would never understand just how his father always seemed to know what was going on.

Without waiting for a response, Alan stood abruptly, careful not to jostle Don in any way as he removed his hand from Don's. He didn't quite break the connection though, but instead, he guided Charlie's hand until Charlie found himself gripping Don's cold and limp hand. Without another word, Alan slipped from the room and Charlie found himself alone with Don for the first time since the morning of the incident, which was only a little over a day past, though it seemed like years.

Slowly, Charlie moved from his kneeling position to take his Dad's place in the chair next to the bed. Unconsciously, he tucked his injured arm in closer, then raised his eyes ever so slowly to look at his brother.

It was hard. Almost too hard to deal with. Charlie rarely saw Don sit still. There were those few occasions, when Don was simply just sitting, a beer in hand, slouched in one of the chairs in the back yard, eyes locked on the koi pond, deep in some thought. Even when Don was sleeping, he tended to move a lot, rolling around more often than lying still. It had made sleeping in the same tent during camping trips that much more irritating. So seeing Don so horribly still was hard to take.

The skin color was all off. It was too close to the color of the sheets. And the bruising on Don's face was abhorrent. His eyelids were black and purple, and several bruises crept from cheekbone to temple, and then down behind Don's ear to the base of his skull. Charlie couldn't remember the coloring before, but then again, he'd been too focused on the blood leaking out of Don's arm.

Gently, with probing hands, Charlie traced the bandage around Don's head. It was loose, so he peered underneath, to find a neat row of stitches on the side of Don's head, closer to the back. Suddenly, Charlie couldn't help but smile. Several inches of skin was now showing where they'd shaved it to put the stitches in. Don would be furious. He had always been proud of his thick dark hair, which he kept short to prevent the genetically inflicted curls that Charlie proudly sported. _When Don wakes up he's going to be so mad…_

Charlie sobered immediately. If Don woke up. Not when. Charlie shook his head. _Stop thinking that way Charlie. Don would be so mad at you._

To avoid more dark thoughts, Charlie continued his catalogue of Don's appearance. The oxygen mask of Don's face obscured his brother's handsome features and Charlie was chilled by the mechanical rise and fall of Don's chest. Don's torso was still bare of a hospital gown, but Charlie couldn't see much of his brother's skin. There were fresh bandages that hid the incision from the surgery, and a wide tenser bandage that held the ribs that Dr. Welker had told them were broken in place so that they could heal. The chest tube was disturbing.

Charlie had always been tactile, and he felt the need to gently caress each part of Don's still form, lightly moving over bruises and bandages, but he carefully skirted the chest tube, protruding from Don's lung, releasing pressure, and hopefully allowing the lung to heal itself.

Don's bare arms were evidence of his strong physical stature and condition. Charlie had always marveled at how defined his brother's arms were, and although he knew that his brother worked out regularly to keep in peak physical condition for his physically demanding job, he realized he was entirely absent from that part of Don's life.

Don had always been very physically oriented, and besides playing Basketball with Don, Charlie's only contact with that part of Don's life had been predicting Don's baseball stats and occasionally stepping on his big brother's ego by trying to suggest different tips that might improve Don's performance.

Charlie shuddered involuntarily as that thought morphed into the realization that he and Don had problems. They were brothers, and brothers were bound to have problems, but they had more than their share. Although things had vastly improved, the fact remained that there was a lot unsaid between the two of them.

He knew it was natural that he and Don might go head to head every now and then, especially when they were working on FBI cases. But that didn't mean that he liked it. He knew there were still deep seated problems revolving around the passing of their mother, and their respective childhoods. Charlie knew it was never going to be perfect, but now that he was faced with the morbid idea that Don might be gone from him forever, he couldn't believe he'd let so much slide.

There was so much more the two of them could have done. And the worst part was that they both knew the mortality of Don's job. They both knew, in the back of their minds, that every day that Don got up, strapped on his gun and put his badge in his pocket was a day that he might never come home. Yet they still let things come between them and fester. To top it off, Don was always so willing to gloss their difficulties over. He instantly forgave Charlie, instantly took him back. Sometimes Charlie wished Don would stay angry longer and really tell him how he felt, rather than having short angry bursts, with nasty words, that then passed to reveal a loving, forgiving and ultra-concerned older brother.

Charlie knew that he didn't always deserve Don's forgiveness. But it went both ways. Charlie had done the same for Don. It wasn't that he wanted the anger to last. He just wanted truth and reality.

The idea of truth and reality sent Charlie's mind careening again, and the numbers that Charlie was fighting so hard not to give into, tugged again at the edge of his mind, promising him a release. Promising him control.

Charlie pushed them aside again, and reached to trace the thick bandage that wound its way over Don's bicep and shoulder where the bullet had first passed before coming to rest in Charlie's arm. Then Charlie's hand snaked down over Don's elbow to where the cast on Don's hand came up just above the wrist.

Sighing heavily, Charlie leaned back and unconsciously managed to tuck his hand back around Don's still one.

"I'm not leaving you Don. I won't. I won't run back to my numbers, I promise. But you can't leave me either. Do you hear me? This family just won't make it. You have to stay here. I don't care how much you want to go. You have to stay."


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Well, here we are. It's been over three years since I've updated this story. I feel pretty bad about that. I got writer's block, then life just simply got away from me and I stopped watching Numb3rs. However, I'm back. And I'm going to try my best to finish this story, thought I don't know how long it will take.

Please keep in mind that when I started writing this, it was just second season, so this is going to seem way out in left field for some new readers.

One more warning – I had mentioned this before that this is non-canon because I chose to pair Don and Amita together. If you're hardcore Charlie/Amita fans, I apologize in advance.

That being said, here it is.

The sun was just beginning to rise in the sky; it's rays slipping into between the blinds, illuminating the minute dust particles that swirled in the air. They also cast a golden glow on Don's face – somehow making the now healing bruises look a little softer, a little less garish.

Amita shifted forward in her chair, her movement unnoticed by Charlie, who was asleep a few feet away, awkwardly perched in another chair. She examined the FBI agent carefully.

It had been four days since the mercy flight in the middle of the night to LA Central – four days since the brutal and unexpected attack in the bank. Four days of hell. Four days, and Don still hadn't regained consciousness, instead remaining in a coma. On day three, they had moved the agent from ICU into a regular, private room, paid for by the Bureau. Alan had been very positive about this – until Don had crashed – cardiac arrest, they'd said – due to the damaged tissue above his heart. From the bullet. Since then, things had been relatively quiet.

Amita scrubbed at her face tiredly. It was almost nine, but it felt like six AM still – she hadn't been sleeping well, not since being in the FBI office with Colby and David when the call had come in. She'd been plagued by nightmares of losing both Charlie and Don.

Reaching out, she squeezed Don's good hand. As usual, there was no response. Don still looked awful. Although some of the bruises on his face were starting to mend – a good sign according to Don's new doctor – most of them were still ugly shades of blue, black, and purple. Around his eyes looked the worst – he looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion. Still, there was some green and some yellow starting to appear, indicating positive healing. Some of the yellow was appearing, poking out of the bandages that covered Don's chest – but it still made for an absolutely heart-rending sight.

Don was still on oxygen, and had a tube down his throat. He hadn't fought the tube since day two. There was also the chest tube still, sticking up out of his chest like some aberration, but it allowed oxygen into his badly damaged lung. There was also still a bandage around his head and his broken hand remained motionless in it's cast. Besides Charlie's soft snoring, the only other sound was the oxygen machine, whirring, forcing oxygen in and out of Don's body.

As the days had dragged on, and Don had shown no sign of waking, the doctors became more and more concerned. They'd run several CAT scans – and his brain activity was unacceptably low. Dr. Wild had explained that could mean more than one thing, but worst-case scenario was brain damage. Don had a severe concussion, resulting from his skull bouncing off a marble floor and another run in with a steel support strut. His brain had swelled dangerously. Charlie hadn't taken the news well. He seemed hell bent on thinking the worse – that Don was never going to wake up from the coma, that he was brain damaged anyway, that there was a good chance he'd never be able to hold a gun again, and that Don was going to die. Still, he stayed at the hospital obsessively.

Amita was beginning to worry about him – and she wasn't the only one. He only went home to change and shower. He ate all of his meals at the hospital and had arranged for care for his own wound to be taken care of there, at LA Central. The nurses and orderlies had tried to send him home, but he'd managed to get Megan to pull a few strings, and he was allowed to stay there whenever he wanted – though Amita suspected that Megan was now regretting her decision to help. At first, everyone had been very surprised, especially considering Charlie's pessimistic attitude. From what Don and Alan had once told her about Charlie's reaction to his mother's illness, she had half expected him to avoid the hospital, and avoid Don. But, the opposite was happening. He couldn't be dragged away.

It was all heart wrenching and horribly difficult all at once. Already, Charlie and Alan had had several heated discussions. The last one had happened around seven this morning, when Charlie had announced that he had run the numbers, and expected that they would need to make a decision about taking Don off the respirator in a little over three weeks. That had been too much for Alan. The fight that had ensued was a nasty one of angry accusations, hushed threats, and blame – all conducted in a whisper, to prevent either of them being thrown from the hospital for disturbing the peace. Amita had been unsure what to do, so she'd stayed there and witnessed the whole thing, afraid that in the fracas, Don might actually awaken and witness his family dissolving in front of him, so she'd gripped the agent's hand and then covered his ears, willing his world to be silent. The fight had ended with a bombshell, driving Alan from the room.

"This is your fault Dad – if you hadn't ignored Don when he was a kid – if you had just put him on equal footing with me, we wouldn't be in this situation. He never would have joined the FBI. You practically forced him into Quantico! If you hadn't talked so much about hating Feds and how the FBI needed to clean up it's act, Don never would have thought twice about going! He only did it to prove you wrong – to show you that he could do something you wanted in the 70's. So what happened? He joined the FBI and threw him self in harm's way – just hoping you and Mom would pay attention to him – and when that didn't happen, he decided more dangerous must be the way to go – so he moved into Fugitive Recovery – where he learned all of these bad habits of only having himself and his co-workers to rely on. So now, he comes home the hero, and you still have a problem with it, so he pushes harder, faster – stretches himself to the limit – just to get your attention! And now look – now he's dying, all because of you."

The words had been too much for Alan. He'd frozen, deadly still, his skin ten shades paler than it should have been, then he'd fled from the room, even as Amita had leapt to her feet to intervene – to try to stop Charlie from saying those things that she knew he really didn't mean. It was too late though, and Alan was gone, and Charlie stood there, gaping after his father, as if he'd been possessed and was just then realizing it. "Dad…I'm sorry – I didn't mean it…" he'd said in a strangled voice, then turned away from her like she wasn't even there, had curled up in the chair and had stared at Don catatonically until he'd fallen asleep out of exhaustion. Amita hadn't known what to say – didn't know if there was anything she really could say. So she'd sat there in silence, a tear running down her face.

Alan still hadn't returned. She could only imagine what he was going through, because she'd seen in his eyes, as Charlie had said those awful words, that even though Charlie didn't really believe them, Alan did. She'd known the family was a little dysfunctional – had seen Don and Charlie fight – had heard stories about their not exactly normal childhood. The thing was, for all that had happened, they seemed fairly well adjusted. What two siblings didn't fight? Don was certainly the Alpha Male of the two, but he was never vicious, at least not that she had seen. It was only normal for two brothers to go at it from time to time – why didn't they realize that? It wasn't like they hated each other. In fact, as the days, weeks, months, and now years, of her acquaintance with the Eppes family had passed, she had seen their bond grow and strengthen. Of course, it would take a life-threatening situation to start to unravel all that work.

Charlie had told her haltingly about the bank in more detail, even breaking down, tears streaming down his face as he revealed the guilt he felt now and the helplessness of the situation. He had asked her why Don had done it – why he'd gotten up – but she hadn't answered because she knew that Charlie had an answer in his heart. It wouldn't have been Don if he hadn't gotten up to intervene. Charlie had spoken of his fear in the bank and how the numbers wouldn't come – and the trusting look in Don's eyes. Amita had been overwhelmed with emotion – she had wanted to tell Charlie that Don would never blame him but Charlie didn't want to listen. When she'd come out with it and said that Don probably blamed himself, Charlie had all but freaked out, growing despondent that Don would blame himself for something beyond his control, which had led to a tirade about Don – about how he felt the need to take everything on himself.

The tirade had gone on for a good half and hour the day before. Amita has sat there patiently and listened to Charlie blame Don for being Don. It hadn't been easy to hear. What kept Amita sitting there was that she knew that as much as Charlie hated everything he was listing about Don, that he equally loved those parts of his brother – as they were the things that truly made Don who he was.

Since then, Charlie had been slowly spiraling out of control.

Amita groaned. "Don – you have to wake up. Your family is falling apart because of all of this. They need you to keep them together." A moment later, she felt a twinge of guilt. How could she put that on Don? He was so sick – so injured – so hurt. How could she ask him then to shoulder his family's issues at a time like this? If it was one thing she'd learned about the Eppes family though, it was that Don was often the glue that held it together. Alan was a sweet and caring man, but he wasn't always as understanding as he could be, prejudiced by a long life full of experience, the loss of his wife, and the burden of raising two exceptional children – one a prodigy, the other with a hero complex. Charlie was sometimes socially stunted, and often so distracted by his work that he was emotionally and physically unavailable. Don, while having his own issues, seemed to hover right in between. He was often able to pull Alan back to the present, always finding a way to show him the big picture, while at the same time able to not only handle Charlie's gift, but in a way, translate his brother – the core of who he was – to the rest of the world, including their own father.

Amita was afraid that if Don died, Alan and Charlie might be estranged forever, both alternately blaming themselves and each other at the same time. She couldn't imagine what toll Don's loss would take truly, but she knew it wouldn't be good.

As for herself, she knew she would feel a hole inside if the agent died.

Being the only one in the room awake, she blushed. She knew she was being crazy. Knew that everyone else was wondering why she was at the hospital so much. After all, why would Charlie's ex-girlfriend be so concerned about his older brother, especially now that Charlie was seeing someone new, albeit casually? By now, she figured she was pretty transparent, and that embarrassed her – especially because she was pretty sure they thought she was turning into a stalker.

After she and Charlie had decided that friends worked much better than dating, she hadn't planned on pursuing another relationship. She was busy with her studies and busy helping Charlie with the FBI cases that Don dropped in their laps. At first, everything had been very innocent. She loved Charlie's family – loved Alan, loved Don, and loved Don's team. They were like a surrogate family to her, being so far from her own. And the cases were interesting, if not a bit emotionally trying at times. She liked extending her knowledge out of books and out of classrooms – she liked trying to be a bit like Charlie. But then she found she liked looking at Don too. A little too much.

The first time she had really realized it was a few months back. She and Charlie had been in the FBI office, wrapping up at the end of a long day. She and Charlie were going to join Colby and Megan for a bite to eat before they headed home, so while they were waiting, Charlie had gotten into a conversation with David and Amita, bored, had began to wander. She'd made it halfway down the hall when she'd spotted Don coming out of his office, headed in the opposite direction. Lost in the paperwork he was carrying and reading, he'd bumped his elbow and the small stack of papers had fluttered to the ground. When he'd bent over to pick them up, Amita felt her breath catch in her throat. She'd always known Don was attractive – had been physically attracted to him the first time she'd met him. After all, he and Charlie didn't look all that different, and she'd been attracted to Charlie, but Don…Don was different. And there he was, standing there in the hall, wearing some sort of designer jeans that hugged all the right places, bending over, his white polo shirt tight around his upper arms, muscles defined, teasing her. That was when she realized she wasn't breathing, she was staring, and that she was likely to get caught.

She'd ducked into the conference room next to her, breathing like a 16 year old did after her first real kiss with the hottest guy she knew. The idea that she was so captivated with Don's butt had hit her like a ton of bricks. Since when had she gone from thinking of Don as Charlie's hot older brother to Don – the smoking hot, available FBI agent she knew? After that, it was like she couldn't contain herself. Every time she was around him, she couldn't stop looking. He looked good in everything. From jeans and a t-shirt she saw him in at his father's house, to a suit and sunglasses at work, and everything in between. His dark hair and dark eyes were alluring and his well-toned body was intoxicating. His voice was ridiculously sexy and there was something about his cool, confident, in control personality that she absolutely loved. Then there was the affection for his family and his loyalty for his team that pretty much made him the ideal man, and since she wasn't afraid of guns in the least, the fact that he carried one just made him all the more attractive for some reason.

Amita had tried to keep her new feelings under wraps, at first attributing them to basic physical attraction. It wasn't surprising, she'd seen plenty of women look at Don Eppes like he was a piece of meat. But as time dragged on, she realized she liked him for who he was – for his personality, for his laugh, for the motto he ran his life by. It was then she realized, that like a schoolgirl, she'd fallen head over heels for her ex-boyfriend's older brother. That hurt her, because she realized that to act on her feelings would be to hurt Charlie, and to test the fragile bond between elder and younger brother.

Then there was the day the realization came that she'd been pretty bad at hiding her feelings. It had all happened at once. At dinner at the Eppes' house, Don had caught her staring at him and had winked back, and that wink had communicated everything she'd needed to know – he knew she was into him – he'd seen everything, and he was more than flattered. But he did nothing about it. Charlie had obviously seen the exchange, because in a controlled voice, as he'd tried to hide some hurt, he'd asked her later that night, out in the garage, if she was falling in love with Don. She'd stammered and stuttered, but didn't want to lie to Charlie – didn't want to lose his friendship, so she'd said nothing and hung her head. For a while, the garage was very quiet, then Charlie had squeezed her arm and given her a weak smile. "Just give me a little while to get used to the idea, ok?" he'd finally said. She was taken aback, surprised. "I want Don to be happy too, you know," he'd said a little defensively. After she'd muttered a very quiet apology, it was like everything had been forgotten.

Amita had then hoped that things would progress. She even purposefully stopped by the office more and took every opportunity she had to see Don – and although he returned her flirtation, there was always a controlled edge to it. She'd even caught him staring a few times, the way she watched him, but still, he did nothing. Her only conclusion was that while Charlie had sort of given her the go-ahead, he'd not had the same conversation with Don – and Don, valuing his relationship with Charlie, was not willing to risk losing his brother over a woman. The realization had hurt a little, but Amita knew she couldn't be selfish. If Don really liked her, someday, he would say something. Until then, she would have to wait. And waiting was hard.

Just like sitting there, waiting to see if Don recovered was hard. If he did, she was determined she would say something, even if he told her he didn't return her feelings or that he couldn't risk his relationship with Charlie. She found she respected him far too much and cared about him far too much to let another opportunity slip by.

A nurse came in to check on Don, stirring her out of her revelry – and awoke Charlie in the process. The mathematician looked around expectantly, and his face fell.

"Dad's still not back?" he asked, his voice tortured.

"No," she responded softly.

Charlie stood stiffly, his attention on Don. "Any change?" he asked the nurse, but his voice didn't hold any hope of a positive answer.

The nurse frowned apologetically. "I'm afraid Agent Eppes is much the same as he was a few hours ago." Charlie nodded stiffly, then turned to Amita. "I'm going for a walk," he told her, then stepped out.

Amita sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair, watching as the nurse finished checking Don's monitors and readjusted his fluids. "Don't let him get to you," the nurse told Amita quietly, referring to Charlie. "I've seen other family like that – they just can't handle the stress. You're Agent here hasn't given up though yet, just keep reminding yourself of that."

Tears pricked Amita's eyes. It was hard not to let Charlie's mood influence her. "Thank you," she said to the nurse, and meant it. The nurse nodded, and left her alone again.

Amita squeezed Don's hand again. "I suppose it's wrong of me to refer to a federal agent as 'smoking hot,'" she said aloud, laughing to herself. "But you are, even if you don't know it."

"He is what?" a tired voice behind her asked, and abruptly, Amita dropped Don's hand, leaping out of her chair.

"Alan! Thank god… I was so worried you wouldn't come back…."

"I was just waiting for Charlie to leave. I…couldn't face him."

"You know he didn't mean what he said…that none of it's true…" Amita began, talking rapidly.

"Amita," he said with a tired wave of his hand. "Please, it's not your job to sort out our family problems, though I appreciate your willingness to try. What Charlie said does have a grain of truth to it though – we made some mistakes raising both of them, you know," he said, pure emotional exhaustion in his voice. "And I've no doubt that I might have planted a seed in Don's mind – but I'm old enough to know that what Don wants, Don gets – and if that meant the FBI, wild horses couldn't have dragged him away. I have regrets, but regrets do me no good now," he told her and Amita clutched his hand.

"You're very wise," she told him softly. They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a little while, her eyes traveling back to Don, and after a while, she reached out to grip his cold hand again. She heard a soft snort from her side and turned to see Alan giving her a long, measuring look.

"I've been meaning to ask you, which of my sons are you here for? Charlie? Or Don?" The question caught Amita off guard, and as her mouth hung open, she stared at the older man, almost missing a slight twinkle of mischief in his eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: It's good to be back Thank you so much for the reviews – I was a little afraid at first that no one would remember the story or no one would care if I finished it, so I'm glad to see that some people still like it! I'm going to do my best to finish it! The rest of the story won't be heavy Amita/Don, but I always loved their chemistry (also love Don & Robin), but I wanted to write something kind of funny into this story – like Amita's attraction to Don. Anyway, thanks for not hating it, and here we go again. Hold on, this one's a rollercoaster.

* * *

Charlie startled himself when he crushed the dry, brittle leaves under-foot and he realized that he'd stopped under a tree, in the midst of a bright carpet of fall leaves. It was mid November in LA and while it wasn't cold, the wind was a bit brisk, causing him to clench his fist around the collar of his coat and pull it a bit closer.

Where was he? He glanced around.

The cemetery.

Fear clenched in his stomach. Don? Don was dead? It didn't seem real – it didn't seem right. He turned, feeling desperate – feeling like something was terribly off. But everything seemed so real. He looked up at the sky bitterly. Sun? On the day they were burying his brother? Couldn't it have at least had the decency to rain? The yellow ball seemed to blink down at him, spreading a little warmth through the city. Charlie bit back a strangled gasp.

He turned to look behind him, and there on the well-worn dirt road through the cemetery, was a line of non-descript government vehicles – the majority of them black, sporting various state and federal plates. The line seemed to stretch on forever – sedan after sedan, followed by SUV after SUV – but not Don's Suburban. Not that Charlie could have picked it out of the line if he'd wanted to. It seemed there was quite a crowd.

And why wouldn't there be? Don was a hero in his own right. He'd touched the lives of hundreds of people over his time as an FBI agent – fellow agents, superiors, partners, other LEOs – not to mention victims and their families. Charlie could have continued to list those that Don had helped, could have even come up with a formula to more accurately detail the number, but his gaze was distracted by the hearse rolling down another road towards the small crest where he was standing, a full LAPD motorcade escort, sirens silent, but lights flashing in respect.

Charlie turned away, a feeling of panic rising up in his chest. It was terrifying and he wanted to run – wanted to flee – but how could he? How could he leave his brother's own funeral? He looked down at his feet, noting the scuffmarks on the toes of his black dress shoes. How had he gotten there? He didn't remember getting dressed and going to the cemetery, let alone leaving the hospital, or whatever had ultimately finished Don off. He flinched. How cold could he be?

Commotion behind him caused him to turn and look. The hearse had come to a stop and the pallbearers were waiting to help remove the casket. Charlie froze. Why wasn't he down there? His eyes burned as he took in each person huddled around the hearse – David and Colby were to be expected, but Megan was there as well, and Billy Cooper – Don't partner from Fugitive Recovery – when had he gotten there? Ian Edgerton was there as well, something that ever so slightly surprised Charlie. That was five – who would be the sixth? Then he felt Megan's eyes on him expectantly.

"Oh. It's me." The words seemed hollow, even to himself.

Forcing his feet to move, he made his way down the crest, slowly trudging the distance to where his brother's colleagues and friends were waiting. They were all somber, dressed smartly in black suits, their eyes strangely empty. No one said a word to him, but Megan touched him lightly on the shoulder before the funeral director told them what to do.

Soon enough, Charlie found himself gripping the silver rail on the elegant mahogany colored casket. No doubt the best money could buy if his father had had anything to do with it. Still, Charlie couldn't shake the feeling that something seemed off. The casket didn't seem heavy enough. His mind whirled, numbers bouncing in and out as he tried to calculate what kind of weight he should be feeling, split amongst the six people who were honoring his brother, but he realized too late that he had no basis on which to draw a conclusion – he had no idea what a casket was supposed to weigh. Why would he?

They made their way up the short incline until Charlie laid eyes on the gaping hole where they intended to bury his very best friend – his brother. The thought was almost enough to freeze him in place, but a gentle nudge from Colby kept him moving. He was hardly aware of lowering the casket onto the rails over the hole when he felt a hand squeezing his, pulling him gently to the side. He turned to find Amita, sheathed in black, looking unbelievably sad, but instead of her own grief, she was trying to ease his. He thought he might throw up.

His eyes wavered, then turned to face the sea of people surrounding them. There were only a few chairs, but the majority of people stood – and there were dozens of them – dozens and dozens of FBI agents and other LEOs. Charlie felt chilled to the bone that so many people had respected his brother so much. Still, it didn't seem real – it couldn't be – Don couldn't really be gone, could he? Searching for answers, he nearly missed seeing Larry in the crowd and he felt a sudden surge of gratefulness that his friends cared. Then his eyes came to rest on his father.

Alan looked unspeakably old and broken, his face a mask of despair and tragedy. Charlie wanted to go to him – wanted to say something that would take all of this away. He had the sudden urge to run to his father, to tell him that this was all wrong – that it wasn't happening – that Don wasn't dead. Panic bubbled up inside of him again. Shouldn't they be still sitting in the hospital? Wasn't Don still alive?

It was like roots had grown out of his feet though, holding him in place and his eyes darted wildly from the coffin, draped carefully with a flag, to his father's broken face, to a tombstone he was very familiar with. They were burying Don next to his mother. Right next to Margaret Eppes. How could they? How could they survive this? First his mother – the light in their family – and now Don – their glue, their protector, their voice of reason, their rock in a storm. Charlie couldn't breathe. He couldn't do this. Couldn't lose Don. What would he do? Come to the cemetery and seek his brother's advice there? There was no stone now, but Charlie could only imagine what it might read – Donald Eppes – beloved son and brother, protector and friend, who touched the lives of all those he knew.

Desperately, Charlie swiped at his eyes, willing the deluge of tears away. He heard the soft hum of Hebrew verse and raised his head to see a distinguished looking Rabbi speaking on behalf of his brother and it was too much. Charlie wheeled away, desperation tearing at his heart as he tried to flee. It was strange, like no one noticed that he was running away – either that, or everyone had simply suspected that that was exactly what he was going to do. He cast one more glance over his shoulder. No one had moved. His father still looked broken-hearted, Don's team still looked to be in the throws of deep grief, Amita was still holding her hand as if she was compassionately clutching his – and the rows of FBI agents were still there, the sun glinting off their black sunglasses – sunglasses so similar to the aviators Don always favored – but no one was moving, it was as if they were frozen and everything seemed wrong.

As Charlie realized he didn't want to live in a world like that – a world without Don – a world that had lost a special bright spot, a protector of the weak, a soldier for justice, and a much needed brother and son – everything seemed to start to fade around him and he wondered if he was passing out. As the cemetery slipped away, he heard someone calling his name worriedly.

"Charlie? Charlie!" the voice was insistent and distinctly feminine. Charlie was still trying to grasp onto the last straws of his vision before he realized hands were shaking him.

His eyes flew open.

Megan was standing in front of him, her hospital visitor's pass hanging off the bottom of her sweater next to her gun and FBI shield. Her face was creased in worry.

The hospital. He was in the hospital. Not in the cemetery. Not at Don's funeral.

"Don!" he cried out, voice weak with exhausted emotion. Megan looked startled.

"Charlie, it's ok. Take a deep breath – you were having some sort of nightmare," she tried to sooth him with her words, her eyes calculatingly telling him she thought he needed to seek some mental help.

"Where's Don?" he demanded, the rudeness in his voice hurting his own ears and he instantly regretted the tone, but Megan didn't seem fazed.

"They just took him up for a CAT scan about forty minutes ago. You were sleeping – we didn't want to wake you. Don't you remember? Dr. Wild was here about an hour ago to let us know she wanted to see where the swelling in his brain was at?" She stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"Don's not dead." Charlie knew it half sounded like a question and half like a statement, but he desperately needed Megan to confirm that his brother was indeed still alive.

"Don's not dead," she repeated to him, suddenly understanding. "It was just a nightmare Charlie. He's still here – he's still hanging on."

"I was in the cemetery – and there were all of those frustratingly black government cars – and the police… And the hearse! And you were there with me, with everyone – with Billy and Ian – and we were carrying the casket… My father… There was a hole in the ground… Right next to my mother…" his words were fraught with pain and desperation as all of the horrifying emotions from the dream came flooding back.

Megan crouched in front of Charlie, waiting for him to finish, recognizing that he needed to get it out.

"They were burying him. And everyone looked so sad – and all of those FBI agents…standing there in their suits and their sunglasses…." Charlie trailed off, stiffening. "Where are Don's sunglasses?" he asked, as if the whole world hinged on the answer to his question.

Megan stared at him speechlessly for a moment after he'd jumped the track so quickly. He knew she was doing what she did best – knew she was putting her profiling skills to work – and Charlie had a good idea that she thought he was starting to lose it – that the toll of Don's injuries and failure to recover was sending him in to a downward spiral. Charlie was a little afraid that she was right.

He'd been quite irrational. He refused to leave the hospital except for the bare necessities, he'd ignored his employers and had ignored Olivia's phone calls, and he seemed hell bent on believing that Don was a lost cause – that he was as good as dead. He'd told his father that. He'd told anyone who would listen that. He'd announced his prediction on when they'd have to decide to take Don off the ventilator. He'd told his father that it was his fault that Don was an FBI Agent, and by default, that it was his father's fault that Don had been shot five times and was now lying in a coma, in desperate need of a miracle. Now, after having stood by his pledge that Don was as good as dead, he was freaking out after having a dream that his brother was truly gone – which had led to him desperately needing an answer to where Don's sunglasses were.

"Don's sunglasses?" Megan asked finally.

"Yes, where are they?" He could hear the desperation in his voice. "When we went into the bank, he took them off and put them on his head, like he always does. So where are they now?"

Megan looked at him like he'd truly snapped. "I don't know Charlie. I don't remember what happened to them." She didn't say it, but he knew what she was thinking – that she'd had more important things to be paying attention to – like the criminals – like the woman who'd shot Don.

"They must be somewhere…maybe in the evidence bags?"

"Charlie…"

"Please Megan…." He sounded like he was begging. He was.

She sighed, but pulled out her cell phone.

"Colby? It's Megan. No…no, Don's fine. Same as before," she paused. "No, it's something for Charlie. Can you check and see if Don's sunglasses were recovered from the scene?" There was another pause. "Just check for me," she said, and Charlie could imagine Colby's bewildered expression and the questions he must be asking. Silence dragged on for the few minutes it took for Colby to search the computer log of the evidence from the bank. "Thanks Colby," Megan said, and flipped her phone closed. "They recovered one pair of sunglasses," here she hesitated, but then continued, "…listed as broken."

Charlie sat still in his chair. He wasn't sure why it mattered. After all, they were just sunglasses. But to him, those sunglasses defined part of who Don was. They were just like the mask his brother put on every day when he was a federal agent – something to hide the most intimate part of himself – a shield against the world, all the while looking calm, cool and collected on the outside.

Charlie jumped to his feet. Don needed those sunglasses. Maybe not the pair that he'd been wearing into the bank – undoubtedly broken when he'd fallen and hit his head – but he needed a pair. Charlie needed for him to have a pair. Because that would seem normal.

"Charlie?" Megan asked, her voice very worried.

"It's ok Megan, I'll only be gone a few minutes. I just…have to go down to the gift shop." He could hear her start to speak, almost like she was going to protest his actions, but he didn't listen – he didn't care. He had a pair of sunglasses to find.


	19. Chapter 19

Author's Note: Thank you for all the reviews! They make me keep wanting to write! I have to admit, it feels great to be back into this. Hopefully you all enjoy this chapter as well!

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In the darkened room, Alan Eppes peered up at the fluorescent light on the wall, which backlit an x-ray of his son's ribcage. Strangely, it wasn't the first time he'd see an x-ray of Don's ribs. In fact, he'd seen more than just ribs. Don had been a typical boy. He'd broken a few bones. The two cracked ribs and one broken rib had been a result of a collision at third base when Don was twelve. Alan couldn't picture the event, because he hadn't been there. He had been with Charlie, at a math meet, and had arrived home later that evening to find the house still dark and the table empty. There had been a somewhat frantic message on the machine from Margaret regarding their whereabouts – the hospital.

Alan had been so grateful that Margaret had been there – they'd almost both gone with Charlie, but at the last minute, no doubt filled with motherly intuition, Margaret had disappointed Charlie by going to Don's game. It seemed that the older both Charlie and Don got, the less of Don's baseball games they made it to and the more of Charlie's needs they attended to. But Margaret had been there that day – an older boy, thirteen, who was a bit bigger than Donny had been running the bases, and Don had been on third. Of course, collisions happened all the time, but this time, the slightly larger boy and Don had ended up in a heap as the umpire declared the runner out. Only when Don didn't get up right away, even as the other boy reached for his hand did Margaret begin to worry. She'd said later that she just always assumed he got back up.

Alan snorted at that thought, startling the doctor standing beside him.

"Mr. Eppes? Is everything all right?" Dr. Wild asked.

Alan hesitated before speaking. Was everything all right? She was a very nice woman, but had she lost her mind? No, everything was most decidedly not all right. His eldest son was down the hall, lying in a coma, which he'd been in for five days. Prior to that, he had been shot and abused all in the line of duty. To top it off, Don was showing absolutely no sign of waking up and all the tests the doctors had run on his brain were inconclusive. But that wasn't the only issue. There was his youngest son – who was emotionally traumatized from having been witness to his brother's injuries while being forced to try to prevent them. Charlie was emotionally tortured, and was now blaming his father for the chain of events that led them to where they were today. And Alan himself was facing the facts that Charlie was right – that he'd been as much a party to this as anyone else. Sure, he hadn't been there in the bank – hadn't been the one to shoot Don and taunt Charlie. He hadn't even been the one to insist that Don do something productive with his life – to put his life on the line every day for people who either didn't know or didn't care – he hadn't pressed for Donny to join the FBI and offer his life for the lives of others. What he had done was to create a situation where a young boy was forced to be self-sufficient while being taught to put the needs of his younger brother before his own. What he had done was to teach both of his sons wrong from right and to instill in them a strong sense of justice. What he had done was ignore the signs that Don was just dying to be paid attention to – dying to be recognized for the bright and successful young man he was. What he had done was drive Don to the FBI – then to Fugitive Recovery – only to yank him back home to then put a dying family back together. No, everything wasn't all right.

But he could hardly say all of this to his son's doctor. So instead, he tried to smile at her, even though he could tell instantly that she saw it was faked, so he tried a bit of honesty without spilling the whole truth.

"I was just remembering something his mother said about him – something that I bought into. Just didn't realize until now that what she said could ever be wrong."

"Let me guess – she said something about how he must think he's invincible?" Dr. Wild said, a small smile on her lips.

"Very close," Alan admitted.

Her face softened. "Mr. Eppes, I've treated more than one law enforcement officer – I've dealt with police officers, DEA officers, a few ATF officers and one other FBI agent. I hate to generalize, but they're all the same. They're all surprised that someone got them. They all think they're invincible."

Somehow, it made Alan feel better to know that Don wasn't the only moron out there walking around like he thought he was bulletproof.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "You've probably seen far worse. And, I'm not as naïve as a look. I know that Donny's been injured before – bullet grazes, knife wounds – even another gun shot wound – but he hides that kind of thing if he can – always worried about me worrying. I don't know when he got to thinking that he was the father and I was the child – talk about switching rolls!" he complained in mock irritation. Somewhere inside of him, it touched him that Don worried so much about him – that he wanted to protect his father from the harsh realities of not only his job, but life in general.

"You know," Dr. Wild said, squeezing his arm, "I've heard that federal agents are more likely to die in car crashes or from natural causes than they are to die on the job." Her words were meant to be soothing – and strangely, they were – not that Alan wanted to imagine his son dead from any cause. Parents shouldn't bury their children. It just wasn't right.

"Yet, here we are," Alan said with a heavy sigh, scrubbing his hand over his face.

"Yes," Dr. Wild allowed. "But, this is good news." She turned her attention to the x-ray. "As you can see, the cracks in these ribs are healing nicely, and this," she indicated the area where three of the bones had been broken and then set at the hospital, "…this is all very positive. You can actually see the bones knitting themselves back together. It's really quite amazing what the body can do with some rest. Of course, this is still going to be pretty painful – coughing is going to hurt – but when I say this is a good sign, I mean it. It's also a good indication of why he's still in a coma. His body needs as much energy as possible to deal with the trauma he's been through. I'm not surprised that he's not awake yet."

Alan regarded her carefully, wondering how much of the positive talk was to keep him from breaking down. For once, he wished he had Don's skills of observation. Sure, he could normally read people pretty well, but Don was different. Don saw through people like no one else did. Part of it was the job training – the rest – Alan knew came naturally – he'd gotten it from his mother. Margaret had always been able to see deeper – into people and around things. She'd always been a great champion of details and often noticed what others did not. To Don it certainly seemed to come naturally.

"Do you give this kind of speech to everyone?" he finally asked.

She looked surprised. "Mr. Eppes, I promise that I will be nothing less than honest about your son's condition. I take my job very seriously – even more so when I deal with law enforcement officers – it's kind of like an unwritten rule when they come in for care."

Alan flushed, suddenly feeling bad. "I'm sorry… I shouldn't be so cynical, it's just that I'm used to Don always trying to keep things from me, and Charlie and the team trying to gloss over the more edgy things – and there are lies sometimes, and platitudes. I didn't mean to imply that you were anything less than honest."

She laughed. "I'm getting the feeling that he's been quite the handful."

Alan sobered further. "That's part of the problem – he's always trying not to be a handful. Half the time, it's me being the handful. When did it happen that children parent their parents?"

Dr. Wild just shrugged. "That's a mystery that the world has yet to reveal Mr. Eppes. Do you want to see the x-ray of his shoulder?"

Here, Alan hesitated. Did he want to see what kind of damage a bullet through the shoulder would cause? "Is it…bad?" Alan asked.

"Actually, like I told you before, Don was pretty lucky. The bullet passed through mostly muscle, just clipping the back part of his shoulder blade, which, incidentally, angled the bullet up and probably saved Charlie from getting the bullet in his chest, instead of his arm if I understand right where he was standing behind Don."

Alan blinked at her in surprise. "So, because the bullet his Donny's bone, it's angle changed, and prevented it from hitting Charlie in the chest?" Dr. Wild nodded in assent. Alan had to fight down an inappropriate urge to laugh. "How typical," he said instead, sounding half angry. The doctor looked at him in surprise.

"I don't understand… Isn't that a good thing? If Charlie had been hit in the chest, his wound would most likely be far more painful and cut down his range of motion quite significantly. And a bone chip is nothing serious. Dr. Welker just wants to remove it in the next few days so it doesn't cause any damage, but there has been no effect to the integrity of the rest of his bone…"

"You must think I've lost my mind," Alan said, scrubbing at his face again. "I'm just having a hard time dealing with all of this – and if you knew my son, then you'd find it ironic too that even while taking a bullet for his brother, even that was not enough, and he should further damage himself to ensure that Charlie was not injured any worse than necessary." He waved his hand at her when she opened her mouth to protest, obviously about to say that Don could have had no idea what the trajectory of the bullet was, nor that it would hit his shoulder blade. "I know, I know – it would be totally impossible for him to really impact the outcome of the bullet – but like I said, if you knew Donny…you'd think it was suspicious too. Trust me."

To his great relief, she laughed. "Like I said, it sounds like you have your hands full."

Without asking him again, she switched the x-rays so he was looking at Don's shoulder blade. Just as she had said, there was an almost half-moon shaped chip, only slightly ragged. "You said more surgery?" Alan hated that word.

"Yes," she responded, stepping forward to point out the small chip of bone. "We don't want this working its way into something important. It would be very minor – and we can wait. He's in no danger right now of it going somewhere it shouldn't be while he's in bed, not moving around. We can wait until later to do the surgery."

Alan nodded. "What's one more procedure?" he said, trying to joke. Dr. Wild smiled at him sympathetically.

"Forgive me if I'm intruding, but I noticed that you and Charlie have been ignoring each other. It's none of my business, but I'm a strong believer that negative feelings around someone as badly injured as Don is can't be helping him. Can I suggest burying the hatchet…for Don's sake? He's going to need all the support and love that he needs – which means both of you there, not taking shifts awkwardly avoiding each other. People in comas often say, after they wake up, that they remember people being there with them and talking to them. If he senses that something's not right… Well, it may be less than convincing for him to try to come out of it."

Alan gaped at her, feeling like he'd just gotten a lecture from his mother. He couldn't remember the last time that someone had reduced him to feeling like an unruly child, but somehow, the doctor that was providing his son with the finest care, had managed to do just that.

For a moment, he thought she might try to apologize, thinking she'd gone too far, but instead, the petite woman just stood there, hands on her hips, waiting for him to respond in some way.

Alan wanted to be angry – wanted to yell at her, to ask her how dare she interfere in his relationship with Charlie – how dare she insinuate that they were causing Don more harm than good – that because they had fought that Don would continue to hide away. He wanted to argue with her – to tell her that because he and Charlie were at odds, that it would be all the more likely that Don would wake up. After all, Don was, at heart, a peacemaker. Alan knew that. So despite the guns and the big heavy SUV, the posturing and the dark side of his nature, Alan knew that Don wanted peace – and that was why he'd joined the FBI – not to live a dangerous, highly volatile life, but to succeed in protecting those that couldn't protect themselves and make the world a better, safer place. He was a fixer. So if he and Charlie were at odds – the Don would surely want to wake up to tell them both to cut it out. In fact, he could almost hear Donny saying that to both of them, a sound of irritation and love, all mixed up in one. But he had doubts – doubts that she was right. Doubts that Donny was too tired to keep going – too tired to keep fixing things. Granted, he rarely had to mediate between his father and Charlie, and Alan certainly spent more time mediating between Don and Charlie, but still – it might just be too exhausting.

"I…." All of the steam seemed to blow right out of him. "You're right. It's not good for Donny. I'll talk to Charlie."

This seemed to please her. "Good, then I'll be able to stop having these little information meetings twice." Alan ducked his head in slight embarrassment. How had he not known how childish he and Charlie were being? They needed to be a united front – they needed each other desperately. If Don never woke up, they'd need each other even more.

"Besides, Don's cute little girlfriend is here, I'm sure she can sit vigil while you two talk."

This time, Alan laughed. "Don't let her catch you saying that, I think she might die of embarrassment."

Dr. Wild looked confused. "But, I thought… You mean, she's not his girlfriend? Sitting in there all that time, holding his hand, reading to him? Trying to keep you two civil?"

Alan just laughed again. It was the first time his heart felt light, despite the fact that he worried about what Charlie might think of the brewing romance between his ex-girlfriend and his older brother.

"She's not his girlfriend yet," he said, stressing the last word, merriment in his eyes. "But I intend to see it go that far – I need grandchildren after all."

Now it was Dr. Wild's turn to gape, but she managed to pull herself together and nod with a grin.

"I'll take a few more x-rays in a few days – but I think it's safe to say that internally, he's well on his way."

Alan nodded gratefully, and made his way back down the hall towards Don's room. His normal pattern the last few days would be to listen when he got close, to see if he could hear Charlie's voice, and therefore avoid any further confrontation, but now he knew he could no longer do that. He had to face Charlie – but more importantly, he had to face his own demons.

When he got close, her could hear familiar voices – Don's team. He smiled. They were nothing if not loyal.

For a moment, he hovered outside the door, trying to calm his suddenly nervous stomach, and then he stepped in the room. At first, no one noticed.

Colby was telling some anecdotal story about Don when Colby had first joined the team – some kind of practical joke Don had seen fit to play, while Megan grinned ear to ear, as if she remembered every juicy detail. Charlie was sitting on the window ledge, listening in rapt attention, and although he was probably unaware, Alan caught the ghost of the hero worship on his face that Alan had seen so often when Charlie was a boy. David, who seemed amused by the story, was leaning in the corner, calm and cool – in a stance he'd learned from Don. Amita, having never left Don's side, was perched on the edge of the armchair that someone had dragged in the room from the waiting area down the hall, and was clutching Don's uninjured hand.

As for Don, he looked much the same. Too still and too pale to really be his son, but there, nonetheless, the respirator assuring Alan that oxygen was still reaching his son. Someone, no doubt Amita, had rearranged the blankets again, covering Don's exposed skin to keep out the chill.

If it hadn't been for Don's dire condition, it all would have been a heartwarming sight.

"What did I miss?" he asked as the room dissolved in laughter, with Colby's hands held about a foot apart, his story ending in the word "rat."

Charlie looked up instantly, like a deer caught in headlights and Alan caught his son clutching a small black rectangular box like his life depended on it.

"Dad…" he said, standing as the room elapsed into silence. Alan was oddly reminded of catching Don and Charlie, wading in the Koi pond like they weren't supposed to, being caught red handed.

"I just came from talking to Doctor Wild," Alan said, pressing on, offering Charlie a genuine smile. "She says that Don's ribs are starting to heal just fine. She seemed very encouraged."

The volume in the room went from zero to ten in a moment as everyone began talking at once, clearly pleased with the news. The distraction gave Alan just what he needed, he took the final few steps to Charlie.

"Son, I'd like to apologize to you – but can we go someplace a bit more…private?" he asked. Charlie didn't respond right away, and Alan felt fear clutch his heart – like Charlie might actually say no, but then he saw tears glittering in Charlie's eyes, and the mathematician nodded vigorously. Alan took his free hand, wondering again at the black box, but he led Charlie from the room, squeezing his hand tightly, hoping that this would be the start of recovery for all of them – he and Charlie included.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: Thanks for all of your continued reviews – I appreciate the support Keep them coming and I'll keep writing! Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

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Everything seemed very foggy. His limbs felt lifeless, his head nearly empty of thought – and he felt sad. Incredibly sad.

Still lying in a coma at LA Central, Don Eppes' mind was somewhere else entirely. He wasn't aware that he was so badly injured. He wasn't aware that he was in a coma. He had no idea that for nearly a week, his family and friends had sat vigil by his bedside, willing him to wake up. He had no idea that Merrick had been there to visit, that the head of the FBI had called to check on his condition, or that the doctors were increasingly worried that he had severe brain damage. For those six days since he'd been shot and flown by Mercy Flight over the city to the best trauma ward in Los Angeles, Don had been completely oblivious to the outside world. His body, fearing total collapse had shut down everything – including as much of his brain as possible, to cope with the swelling there – and the drugs that the doctors had given him had only helped that process along.

But now, Don Eppes – son, brother, friend, boss, FBI agent – was slowly becoming aware of something at least. His body wasn't quite ready to wake up yet, but the swelling had gone down enough to allow more brain functioning. The first part of his mind to work again was the imagination center, providing the injured agent with a way to cope with what was going on.

So Don found himself in a dense bank of fog, blinking at the fine mist, yet feeling neither cold nor warm. He was just simply there. And he was sad. And tired. Very tired. His body didn't feel right – his legs and arms were almost feather-light and he could recall nothing of how he'd come to be there, standing in the fog.

The part of him that would always be FBI – that had always been observant and curious, demanding questions - was the first to flare to life. Don glanced around, but all he could see was the wall of fog, so he looked down, trying to ascertain what was going on. He noted his white dress shirt, tie missing, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, but the shirt was damaged – it had a hole in the right shoulder, below his collarbone. Don stuck one finger in it – he'd seen such holes before – the perfect size for a bullet – but there was no blood. He frowned, but having no logical explanation for it, his eyes continued down. He was wearing his favorite pair of jeans and his fingers automatically moved to brush over where the butt of his gun should be, tucked safely in his holster. His body stilled when his fingers met nothing but air. He glanced down. The gun wasn't there – but the holster was. A quick check also revealed that while his handcuff pouch was also still there, it too was empty. Don frowned – he rarely went anywhere unarmed. FBI agents were often on duty even when they were off duty.

The surprise of finding he was unarmed made him nervous, which seemed to war with his feelings of sadness and exhaustion.

"Where am I?" he questioned aloud. Under his feet he found gray concrete. Frustrated, he decided that moving was his best option. The sensation of trying to walk was all off though – it felt more like gliding and it made Don sick to his stomach. He couldn't tell just how far he'd gone because of the thick fog, but it couldn't have been more than a few feet when he came across a tall metal pole, wires anchoring it to the concrete. It was thin and was buried in a block of concrete. A lightning rod. That seemed odd because lightning rods were reserved for the top of buildings, and this one seemed to be fairly industrial – something Don had seen from helicopters and a few unforgettable roof-top chases while in Fugitive Recovery. The memories coincided with a sudden breeze and the fog slowly began to lift.

Don glanced around, just barely able to make out the shape of another lightning rod a few yards away – and there was a transformer and a small hut-like building that no doubt housed something important that needed to be kept out of the elements. He was standing on the top of the building. It seemed that as his realization was growing, the fog was thinning. Soon enough, Don could see the ledge and the lights of a city blinked below him in the dusk that came before night. Don was surprised. What was he doing on the top of a high-rise? Worse yet, he didn't recognize the skyline. If he'd been in LA… But apparently, he wasn't. Other things seemed off. From experience, he knew that it was windy as hell on the top of skyscrapers. There was none except for the gentle breeze that had blown the thick fog away.

Growing more concerned, Don racked his brain, trying desperately to figure out what was going on. What had happened? Where was he? How had he gotten on top of a building in another city?

After a few minutes of stumbling thoughts, Don let his nature take over.

"What do you remember last?" It was his own voice. His Special Agent Eppes voice – the one he used with his team or with a victim or a suspect. That made sense. So he thought about the question.

It was hard. Everything seemed to be either covered in cobwebs or locked behind doors, but slowly, slowly he remembered.

It was morning – his team had just arrived back from a raid – they were in the office. Uncharacteristically, David had already started complaining about wrap up paperwork. Don hadn't been looking forward to it himself, but it wasn't like TV – the life of an FBI agent was rife with long periods of investigation and paperwork, peppered with brief rushes of adrenaline when they were in the field. The office had just settled down, his agents lapsing into silence, the only sound was the soft scribble of pens on paper and tap of fingers on keyboards. He'd been on his way to drop his gear when Special Agent Lynch, who had a few questions for him over a similar case they'd shared a few months back, had stopped him.

Then Charlie had arrived, still with a bit of chalk-dust in his hair, but spouting about the bank investigation that had been handed to them earlier in the week. His younger brother wanted to go to the bank – wanted to take a look at the computer system because he had a theory it was an inside job. It was a low impact case – just an attempt at stolen information that had thus far failed, and with the bank in complete compliance with the FBI, Don had agreed to take Charlie to the bank. A longing, almost begging look from Megan had prompted him to ask her to come. David had pinned his boss with a look of complete disbelief and betrayal when Don had dropped Megan's paperwork on his desk, handing his own stack off to Colby. Don had smiled sweetly. That would teach David to stay away from his desk chair for good. He hoped.

All of the details seemed so clear – Charlie rattling on about one of Larry's new theories while on the way out of the building, Megan's soft whisper of thanks, his own casual search for information on Amita's well-being. It all seemed like moments ago. He remembered getting out of the Suburban at the bank and only realizing then that he was still in his Kevlar from the earlier raid. Of course, Charlie had noticed, looking worried.

The Kevlar vest seemed to set something off in Don's mind. Suddenly, his chest began to ache. Wrapping one arm protectively around his mid-section, he braced his other hand on the lightning rod for support. "What is going on here?" he questioned aloud. He felt like he'd gone ten rounds with a bear – his ribs aching unbelievably. Confused, Don pulled at the white dress shirt, un-tucking it and pulling it up, baring his abdomen. Don blinked in confused concern as he noted the myriad of bruising covering his chest, punctuated by four dark spots. He'd seen them before. Bullet bruising – the after effects of a bullet stopped by Kevlar.

That brought everything crashing back, and he relived the scene in the bank, agonizing moment by agonizing moment. Each tortured look on Charlie's face seemed burned into his mind. There was the sickening feeling of fear as Don remembered trying to get between Charlie and that bullet and the sudden realization that he'd failed. Which was strange, because now he remembered the bullet striking him. His hand dropped the hem of his shirt, flying up to touch the hole in his shoulder. Pain blossomed there. It was a pain he was familiar with – the pain of a gunshot wound. So how then had Charlie still been shot? He remembered falling, remembered Charlie trying to catch him, screaming his name – but he also clearly remembered seeing blood on Charlie. He closed his eyes, trying to focus. The blood had been on Charlie's arm.

That suddenly seemed to lift a weight off of Don's chest. His arm. Charlie had been shot in the upper arm. Unless the bullet had hit a main artery and he'd bled out, then Charlie should be fine. Don sagged against the lightning rod in relief. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back tears.

Unbidden, there was a voice in the back of his head though, that wouldn't let him rest. "You can't trust that Don. Don't be foolish. After all your training, you would just leave it up to one, pain filled memory that your baby brother is ok?" The voice was his. It was the part of him that was all FBI agent and protective big brother rolled into one. It was his conscience – the voice that drove him when he felt like giving up – the voice that encouraged him to get the truth – to look past the easy explanations. It was the voice that had helped him survive childhood – that had helped him not hate Charlie or his parents. It was the voice that ordered him to do his best during baseball games when no one was in the stands to watch him. It was the voice that realistically told him that baseball wasn't going to be where he made his mark. It was the voice that told him that he had to be his own man – that he had to really make something of himself – that he had to prove to the world that he wasn't just the brother of an absolute genius. It was also the voice that told him not to be jealous – the voice that told him to be patient and to forgive.

"Are you listening to yourself? Convincing yourself that Charlie is really safe? Could you really see him? Were you sure he wasn't injured elsewhere? Can you really leave it up to chance? Get it together Eppes. Your family needs you."

It wasn't the first time he'd given himself such a lecture.

After hearing his father's tortured voice on the phone, revealing his mother's illness, Don hadn't known what to do. There was a small part of him that wanted to stick it to his parents – after all, they hadn't been there for him really – the last time he'd seen them was when he'd graduated from Quantico. Things had been fine at first, but when Alan had found out he was taking a position in Fugitive Recovery, he'd been furious. Don had realized later that his father had just been afraid. Afraid of what might happen to his son. But Don had taken it as another sign of just how little his father knew about him and just how much his father hated his chosen profession. Things had only escalated during those few years – Don's phone calls home were very infrequent, and for that he felt a bit of guilt – after all, he knew it was hurting them, especially his mother. It had taken him almost two months to tell them he was stationed in Albuquerque, no longer in Fugitive Recovery. And he'd never really told them about Kim. So when he'd hesitated on what to do regarding his mother's cancer, the good part of him gave him a lashing he'd never had before. He'd been on a plane that night to LA – his transfer already in progress, a moving company hired to pack and transport his belongings. Kim had stayed behind.

Don looked up at the lightning rod, wondering why his brain had conjured it up. At this point, he knew none of this was real – that he was either dying or lying injured in a hospital

somewhere, but why the roof of the building? He made his way to the edge and looked down. It was strange, but he was sure he could feel his father and brother somewhere below him, perhaps in the building.

Of course. That made sense. He'd never been much for symbolism, but at Quantico, everyone took a course on serial killers. A whole section of the course had been on the clues that serial killers left behind – what would ultimately be what helped them be caught. Symbolism had been heavily talked about – many serial killers were trying to show the world something – it was up to the FBI to figure out what that something was.

He realized that the lightning rods were him, the building his family. It was his constant effort to keep them safe – to prevent them from coming to harm in any way. He'd rather take the brunt of any storm – would rather be the lightning catcher if that meant they were safe.

"So, I have to get out of here…have to wake up. Have to make sure Charlie's ok. Dad…. Dad will be devastated if I let Charlie get hurt…get killed."

The guilt was heavy. Almost as thick as the fog that had surrounded him before. All of that effort, and he'd still managed to let Charlie get hurt – and not just physically. A feeling of anger surged up in Don. Would it always be like this?

If Don had refused to let Charlie continue to help him as an FBI consultant, then this wouldn't have happened. They may have never been in that bank at all. But he couldn't say no. He had wanted to at first – partly for this very reason. Ever since the incident with the sniper, Don had wanted Charlie far away from his work in the FBI. There was also the familiar tickle of jealousy and uncertainty. Did he need Charlie to do his job well? Did he need his genius brother to be successful? Would Charlie eclipse him there as well? In the only world that Don had ever had to himself? The rational part of Don had pushed it all away. He had new rules for Charlie to keep him safe and the good FBI agent in him forced him to put aside his insecurities for the greater good – especially considering that Charlie really only helped with part of his case load – there were plenty of cases that he and his team handled that had no need for any math consulting. His high case closure rates weren't only due to Charlie. They were due to the dedication and hard work of himself and his team. Still, it had been intensely hard for him at first, to share that world with someone else.

He didn't regret it – at least not completely. Besides being terrified that he'd nearly gotten Charlie killed, the experience beside that hadn't been bad at all. In fact, he and Charlie were closer now than they had ever been. Even better was that both Charlie and Alan had the chance to see that Don was not only good at what he did, but he was well respected and well thought of – and despite the inherent risks associated with the job and the long hours he put in, Don could see that his father was slowly beginning to see that the FBI wasn't quite so evil as he thought it was, and that Don wasn't completely out of his mind for giving it his heart and soul. There was a sharp pain in Don's chest – but it had nothing to do with his injuries – it had everything to do with the fact that it had taken his mother's illness and subsequent death to bring them to this point, and even after that it had been touch and go for a while.

Don squeezed his eyes shut, trying to picture his mother's face. Lately, it had been becoming harder and harder to make out the details, despite his acuity with memories.

He missed her more than he could admit. He'd always missed her. From the day they'd found out that Charlie was a literal genius who would need as much fostering as possible, Don had begun to miss his mother. He knew she had tried – knew that she had wanted to be there for him. It didn't change things though. Her time had primarily been spent with Charlie.

The old ache of hurt, confusion, betrayal and outright pain was back when he thought about his childhood. Don knew he would always wish things were different, despite knowing that Charlie had really needed his parents' full attention.

The memories of childhood brought back something both bitter and sweet. There, on the wind, Don was sure he could hear a piano. It was playing the most beautiful music and he recognized it instantly – his mother's work – her hidden passion. Don had the same thing in him, buried deeply under the surface. Charlie had always been more like their father, and whether he'd known it or not, he'd always been more like his mother. She had bestowed on him the gift of music. Piano lessons had at first started out as an attempt to ensure Don was well rounded, but Margaret had quickly seen more. From the moment he'd put his hands on the ivory keys and had played his first piece through, she had known Don had skill. He remembered seeing it in her eyes. It was almost the same fascination, joy, pride and sudden horror she'd displayed upon first finding out Charlie was a math prodigy. Although Don knew he was no concert pianist, he wondered if that was the reason why Margaret had suddenly abandoned him, immediately hiring a piano tutor and no longer teaching Don herself. Had she been afraid of how to handle two specially gifted children? Don didn't know. If that had been the case, she was sorely mistaken. Don wasn't bad with the piano – some might even call him a natural – but he was no prodigy.

The piano lessons had ended far sooner than either Margaret or Alan would have liked. Don had held out hope that his mother would dismiss the tutor and come back to teach him herself. He remembered all the times he had silently rehearsed begging her to continue to teach him. He'd never said the words, prideful even then. Then Charlie, wanting so badly to be like Don, had decided that he too should play piano. When Don had come home one day after little league practice to find his mother helping Charlie practice, everything had shattered inside of him. From that moment on, he'd refused to touch the piano. Predictably, as soon as Don no longer wanted to play, neither did Charlie, and the piano sat silent, only disturbed when Margaret stole the few precious moments she had without anyone in the house to play her own work.

Don had seen her once – doing that – and had been somewhat unsurprised when they had come across her written music. He'd come straight home after high school one day, skipping practice because he hadn't been feeling that well. His dad and Charlie were gone for the day – Charlie was visiting local colleges – and Margaret had no doubt thought herself alone. She must not have heard the front door open and close, or the rough motor of Don's first car, because she was there, sitting at the piano, playing away like she was in a concert hall. Don had been shocked and had stood out of sight, watching and listening. He knew instantly he'd been intruding on a private moment, and he'd felt bad, so he slipped from the house, leaving his mother to her dreams.

He played since then – at Quantico, in the chapel where no one bothered him – and in New Mexico. He'd bought a piano then, had it moved to his apartment, but it was still in storage there. And he remembered his mother asking about it, lying there in the hospital.

That was a painful memory – it had been one of her last days. She'd stopped asking if Charlie was coming, and for the first time in forever, she gave her full attention to Don. He had read to her, tried to sooth her, sat with her, with and without his dad. They had talked – and hesitatingly he'd told her a little about the life he'd made for himself. Then she'd asked him about the piano. Wanted to know if he still played – and why he stopped. He'd been frozen to his seat, more afraid of answering his mother than he had been afraid of any criminal in his life. How could he tell her how badly she'd hurt him while she was lying there, dieing? She must have seen it in his eyes.

The apology that had come next was almost to painful to listen to as she bared her soul to him, apologizing for every shred of damage she'd felt she'd inflicted on him. And it was all so detailed. Specific missed games, specific missed moments, specific missed words… She'd touched his face, begging for forgiveness. He'd broken down then and cried like he hadn't since the day of the piano lesson. In halting words she told him how proud she was of the man he'd become.

He'd struggled to tell her not to apologize. He tried to explain that what hadn't killed him had made him stronger – how the man he was today was a direct result of how he'd been raised. He wasn't sorry. Yes, he regretted things – but all in all, he wouldn't be who he was today if he hadn't been forced to deal with his own childhood. "I'm doing what I'm good at – what I was always meant to be – and I owe that to you and dad – and Charlie." It was a backwards sort of way to get to it, but it was the truth.

As she lay there, she'd asked him for promises, not all he was sure he could keep, but he'd promised anyway, and it would be hell and high water that would keep him from defaulting on those words he'd sworn to his mother.

"I know it's unfair of me to ask this of you – especially considering everything else, but please Don… Stay here in Los Angeles. Stay with your father and Charlie. They need you desperately. I'm not sure they're going to survive without you."

If he was honest with himself, Don hadn't known if he would survive without them. Coming home had opened the gaping wounds he'd buried – but it had also uncovered the painful longing to be loved and accepted by his family. He missed his father's cooking and sage advice and he missed Charlie's infectious grin and easy laughter. He missed his mother and the piano.

So, he'd promised her. Promised her that he would stay – and with that promise came a multitude of other promises unspoken – that he love his family, that he protect them – that he be there for them no matter what. That he would not abandon them – and that he would try to open up, try to share himself and accept his father and brother for the men they were – with no prejudice.

Don had known then it wasn't going to be easy and after they'd buried his mother, he'd been tempted to flee again – back to New Mexico – to his neat apartment with Kim. But she was gone, and so, he realized, was the true longing to be the Lone Ranger. He'd been away from home for too long.

What had come next had been a gradual process, but it was more than he could have ever hoped for or imagined – and he wasn't about to give it up now. He wanted to be back in the Craftsman, propped up on the couch, listening to his father puttering in the kitchen, drinking a beer with Charlie. He wasn't going to give that up – and he had to make sure that Charlie was ok.

So, with his mother's music all around him, he closed his eyes tightly and willed himself better – willed himself back – so he could continue his job – to love and protect the only family he had.


	21. Chapter 21

Author's Note: Here's the next chapter, a little brighter note I hope I'm taking a brief break – but I'll be back to finish, I promise. I just have to study for a grad final, finish packing my house, go on my honeymoon and immediately move into my new house upon getting home. I don't foresee much writing time mixed in there…so look for an update around Christmas. Please, let me know what you think!

* * *

Charlie leaned against the window sill in the hospital room and watched as the orderlies wheeled his brother's bed away. He glanced at his father. Alan had a pinched look on his face. Charlie could see worry and fear there, but also hope. He tried to grab hold of that. Tried to grab hold of the eternal hope his father seemed to have.

Alan looked up and caught Charlie's gaze. "It's just another test Charlie," Alan said hopefully.

Charlie nodded. Yes, another test. A test that so far, Don had continued to fail. A simple brain scan to see if there was any brain activity. Yesterday, there had been minimal brain activity still – far too low for the comfort of both Don's doctors and his family and friends. But dutifully, the orderlies had arrived at 9am to take Don for yet another scan.

So, all Charlie and Alan could do was wait. It seemed like they had been doing a lot of waiting the past week.

Charlie forced a smile, reminding himself of the conversation he and his father had had the previous day. Alan had pulled him out of Don's room, and once out of earshot of Don's team and Amita, apologies had come tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall. Charlie, struck with the deep feeling of guilt he'd had since they moment he'd accused Alan of being responsible for… well, for just about everything, found himself unable to speak.

He'd felt tears spring to his eyes as Alan apologized, over and over, obviously grieving and obviously completely convinced that everything that Charlie had said was true. Charlie wanted to stop him, but there was a lump in his throat and he couldn't swallow. Finally, he'd found words.

"No…Dad… Please, don't. I only said all of that – blamed you – because I didn't want to blame myself." It was true. Every word he'd directed at his father had really been meant for himself. "I was responsible. I got him shot. I couldn't stop it in time. I'm the reason he even joined the FBI – he left because of me. If it hadn't been for me, he wouldn't feel the need to…to…try to prove himself by putting himself in harm's way every day…" The words came out in a rush, then he was wrapped in his father's arms, like he was four years old again, crying because Donnie didn't want to play with him.

"Charlie… Oh Charlie… You are not to blame. Please, don't say such things."

They'd stood there, in a quiet corner of a hospital wing for some time, completely unobserved as they both wrestled with their inner feelings of guilt and anger.

Finally, Alan had stepped back, his hands on Charlie's shoulders.

"You know how angry Don would be at us for acting like this? For saying any of those things? You know, he'd probably shout and wave his arms around. He'd be very upset with us."

Charlie had paused, considering his father's words, then couldn't help but smile. The smile turned into an anxious laugh. "You know, you're probably right. He, of course, would take all of this on himself, and possibly even tell us it was his own fault he got shot."

Alan smiled back, a nervous ghost of a laugh coming from him as well. "That's the problem with your brother – he's a stubborn fool. If he ever caught us blaming ourselves because he went and became an FBI agent, he'd probably burst a blood vessel."

Charlie laughed again, and this time, he thought it sounded more normal. "Yeah – the big, tough, FBI agent." He sobered after a moment. "I can't tell you how many times I've rehearsed a speech in my head…begging him to quit."

Alan blinked, then nodded. "I know. But I already said those words…and far worse regarding his chosen profession. It's not worth the heartache you'll get from it. I can't tell you the hurt… The rift…" Alan choked up. Charlie reached up and squeezed his father's hand.

"It's only because we love him dad. And I know, somewhere inside, Don knows that too."

Alan smiled softly. "When did you become so wise?"

Charlie had blushed. "I just learned it all from you Dad. And some from Don," he said, adding the last part grudgingly.

"The doctor yelled at me earlier," Alan said. The sudden confession had surprised Charlie.

"Yelled at you? About what?" Charlie asked worriedly.

"She said that our arguments and disagreements weren't good for Don. She said that if he sensed the discord between us, he might not want to…come back."

Charlie had been stunned. He'd heard of such things before. The mind was a powerful thing. Even if nothing was wrong with the body, a person could stay in a coma for years based on purely psychological issues.

"That's ridiculous!" he said. "I mean…I understand what she's saying, but, and you must agree with me, don't you think that if Don realized we were fighting he'd be more likely to wake up to set us both straight?"

Alan blinked at him. "You know, I had the same thought. Which disturbs me." They were both thinking the same thing suddenly. Did they rely on Don so much? That they just assumed he would fix their issues?

"Yes, but I think it's true," Charlie replied. "I think I could probably work up a probability process to show that he's more likely to want to come back if he thinks we need his help."

"You could be right, but the doctor was quite insistent – and Charlie, I don't enjoy being at odds with you. So lets make a deal, ok? No more blaming ourselves, or each other – and we both try to keep a positive attitude."

Charlie had hesitated. He'd been wallowing in his fear – wallowing in percentages and statistics that said Don was unlikely to wake up. He'd been going over and over his own words – that Don was statistically dead. He'd had a gun pointed at him – not just once, but at least half a dozen times during their ordeal – and that gun had been fired. This was Charlie's coping mechanism. He wasn't going to run off to the garage and immerse himself in unsolvable mathematics – no – this time he wanted to face the worse case scenario head on. He hadn't wanted to believe that his mother was dying, but now, he couldn't bring himself to believe that his brother would live. It was a strange paradox he found himself in.

But he had agreed. Shook his father's hand, said all the right things… Promised that he would no longer talk so darkly about Don's future. There could be no more mention of taking Don off the ventilator, or the risk of infection in his healing lung, or the idea of a permanent vegetative state. At least not aloud. Those thoughts promised not to leave his mind, no matter what. But for his father's sake – and for Don's – he would play the part and at least try to pretend that he wasn't already rehearsing his dream of Don's funeral – that he hadn't looked in his closet the other night, wondering if he should wear the same suit he'd warn to his mom's funeral.

Charlie shook the thoughts – the memories – away. He and his father had made peace – and it felt exceptionally good. That feeling of warmth – of family – that must be enough to rouse Don from his coma. Charlie wanted to believe it.

It seemed too hard though – too hard to hope that this scan would be any different from the rest. Every day since Don had arrived they had taken him for a brain scan. At first, the doctors has assured him that not only was the limited brain activity normal, it was a good sign. It meant that the mind had taken over and was protecting itself. But as the days passed, he could tell they were becoming more and more worried, though they still remained guardedly positive.

So, watching them wheel Don out again felt like a disappointment waiting to happen.

Silence stretched between Charlie and his dad. They were alone in the room. Even though Don was in a coma, the rest of the world still turned, and his team had been forced to return to the office, though Megan had said she doubted they'd be seeing any live cases without their special agent in charge. Most likely, the director would use Don's time in the hospital to make sure that every sheet of paperwork was finally finished. Charlie grinned unexpectedly as he remembered Colby and David grousing about the work, then squabbling in the hall about who got to steal Don's chair. Megan had looked very much the frazzled mother as she'd stared after them. It had reminded Charlie how much like family they had all become. Amita had taken her leave as well – she had been forced to return to CalSci to teach Charlie's classes for him, and for that, Charlie truly felt bad. He had to figure out a way to make it up to her.

Charlie huffed out a sigh, toying with the black box he'd sat on the windowsill with his free hand. His father watched him carefully. Charlie pulled his arm that was tucked in the sling closer to his body.

"I meant to ask you yesterday what that was. You were carrying it around like it was made of gold."

Charlie blinked in surprise. He hadn't realized.

"Oh…uh, it's a gift for Don. For when he wakes up." He uttered the words and saw pleased look on his father's face.

"Just what did you get for your brother? He doesn't strike me as the gift type – and imagine his reaction when he sees all these flowers," Alan said, his hand reaching out to sweep the room where there were indeed flower arrangements piled everywhere. If there was any doubt before that Don was well liked and well respected at the Bureau, that idea was gone now.

"It's nothing. Well, not nothing. Just something silly – stupid really. He probably has another pair…" Charlie trailed off, suddenly feeling uncertain. He looked down at the black box. It contained an outrageously expensive pair of Oakley aviators. He'd found a $5 pair in the gift shop, but they had seemed so flimsy – so fragile – just like Don did at the moment. Charlie had put them back and had fled outside. The hospital adjoined a fairly affluent area – and not a block away were the kind of designer stores that Charlie always fell ill at ease in. Don seemed to do just fine, and he regularly gifted Charlie with expensive clothing that somehow was always just right.

Wandering through the stores, he'd searched for any place that sold sunglasses until he came across an Oakley store. He hadn't meant to spend so much money – not that Don wasn't worth it – but after all, they were just a pair of sunglasses. Still, when he'd picked up the sturdy carbon fiber frame and gotten a speech about how they were virtually indestructible, which seemed to be just what an FBI agent would need, Charlie had found himself at the cash register shelling out an unreasonable amount of money for such a small object. The funny thing was that he didn't regret it. Not one bit. Not, of course, that money was a problem. He certainly did well for himself, but Margaret Eppes had taught both the boys to be frugal – it was as if she was attempting to pass their father's Jewish heritage down to them. Don had always appreciated that. Charlie had always just wanted to go spend his allowance.

"A pair of what?" Alan asked, now genuinely interested, moving towards Charlie.

Charlie hesitated, then decided that holding back wasn't worth it. "It's a pair of sunglasses. Don lost his… They…they were broken at the bank when they fell off his head," _when Don was falling,_ Charlie added silently. "I know it's kind of silly, but he always has them, and it just doesn't seem right that they got broke…" He knew he was babbling, but couldn't stop. Alan smiled and reached out to touch the box. Charlie felt a sudden panic that they would fall and break, just like Don, but Alan merely touched the box, then withdrew his hand.

"I think it's a very nice gift Charlie and I'm fairly certain Don's going to love them."

Charlie smiled at his father. "I hope so."

They sat in companionable silence for a while until Alan launched into a story about the time Don had gotten into their mother's make up. Charlie listened with rapt attention. He hardly ever got to hear stories about Don when he was little. He couldn't really picture his brother with blush everywhere and lipstick on his hands and arms like war paint. The story made Charlie long for Don – long for his older brother's protest about such an embarrassing childhood moment being shared – rolled eyes, frustrated sigh, and eventual acquiescence at Charlie's pleading. Somewhere inside, Don was a big softie.

Both Charlie and his father laughed at the image Alan had painted and Charlie watched his father carefully. The older man's face had a soft look of fond rememberance, clearly recalling Don as a boy.

"He was always into something," Alan mused. "Always trying to fix things…" the words seemed to catch in his father's throat, and Charlie turned, worried.

His father's face had transformed from warm and bemused to afraid and hurt.

"I… I don't mind admitting I'm a little frightened Charlie. I…don't know if I could lose one of you boys."

Charlie was shocked by his father's admission.

"Dad! I thought we agreed to be positive!" he said, trying to turn his father's words back on him. It wasn't supposed to be like this – him trying to convince his own father that Don was going to be ok. Charlie was the one that wanted to wallow in disbelief and despair.

"I'm sorry, son," his father said, trying to pull it together. "That was a moment of weakness."

Charlie was silent for a moment. "Dad, I think its ok if we sometimes admit that we need Don. I mean, don't get me wrong, we don't need that going to his head, but I guess it's the truth. We need him, and whether he likes it or not, he needs us."

"Of course we need Don," his father said. "And you're right, but maybe we don't tell him that enough."

Charlie was about to say something when the door to the room opened again and the orderlies appeared, wheeling Don in. Uncharacteristicly, they seemed pleased about something, but before either Charlie or Alan had a chance to ask what they were smiling about, Dr. Wild breezed in, a huge grin on her face.

Charlie knew at that moment that life was about to get better.

"I have wonderful news," she said, slightly breathless with excitement. In her arms was a large folder that she was holding protectively and she put it down on the small table and flipped it open with flourish. "Look!"

Charlie nearly raced to her side, but his father was a bit slower to respond, hesitant, looking almost afraid.

"It's ok, Alan," Dr. Wild said, seeing his cautious approach. "I promise this isn't a dream. You just have to see this brain activity!"

Charlie couldn't take her word for it and nearly shouldered her out of the way. In the last week he'd become suddenly very familiar with what brain scans looked like. There, underneath his fingertips was something he'd convinced himself wasn't going to happen. Brain activity. Lots of it.

"Is this…Don's?" Charlie asked, suddenly afraid like his father that this must be some trick.

"Of course it's Don's," Dr. Wild said with a laugh. It was suddenly clear that she had somehow emotionally tangled herself in Don's case and that she had clearly been very worried. "To be honest, some of the doctors are saying it's nothing short of a miracle. We thought that he'd gone too long without any activity – we were beginning to think he might be brain dead – but they were wrong! Look at all of this! It's low level, but it's definitely part of his brain waking up, and I can't see any sign of damage. The swelling is almost all gone from his concussion, at least enough to allow this. He's in there. Those are semi-conscious thoughts you're seeing."

Alan muttered something under his breath that sounded like a thank you to a higher power to Charlie. Charlie turned to show his father the scans, but Alan was by Don's side, holding his son's good hand.

"That's a good boy, Donnie. I never doubted you for a moment."

Charlie felt tears prick his eyes, hearing his father speak to Don in such an intimate manner. Dr. Wild also sensed the change and smiled softly.

"That's what I meant about Don needing the two of you. He's still going to need you now. This activity is a wonderful sign – what we need to do now is convince Don that he's safe and he can wake up. We need to get him out of that coma – so he's going to need as much encouragement as possible."

"Encouragement we can do," Alan said, not turning fully, still clutching Don's slightly chilled hand. He reached out and tenderly touched Don's forehead as if he were a child.

Charlie felt hope swell within him – hope that this nightmare might be coming to some sort of conclusion. The emotion was overpowering and almost painful in consideration with all the doom and gloom he'd been harboring lately. But it was there, and it felt good – almost like the rush he got from solving a particularly difficult math mystery. He locked eyes with his father, and they both smiled.


	22. Chapter 22

Well, after another hiatus, this one much shorter than the last, I'm back. All moved into my new house and well into another grad class, but here we go

Let me know what you think…

* * *

Amita stared at Charlie in irritation. The math professor was perched on the window ledge, a pencil tapping endlessly against a stack of papers that Amita had brought from Cal Sci – papers that needed to be graded. About a half an hour earlier, Amita had arrived at Don's room, bringing with her final papers that Charlie had assigned a month ago – now completed and ready to be examined by the curly-haired genius, but Charlie had only given them a look of disdain. While Amita had perched in a chair and said hello to Alan and checked on the still comatose Federal Agent lying in the bed, Charlie had half-heartedly flipped through the first paper, numbers and words jumbled into ten pages.

That attempt had lasted all of five minutes. Alan had stood stiffly, clutched Don's hand, then announced he was going for a walk to stretch. Since he'd been gone, Charlie had been staring out the hospital window sightlessly, the pencil in his hand setting an uneven beat on hours and hours of tears and stress that his students had poured into white computer paper.

At first, Amita had been unbothered, having her own papers to grade, but soon enough, the repetition of the eraser striking the paper intruded into her thoughts and she glared at Charlie. Charlie remained oblivious, even when Amita cleared her throat, shuffled her own papers and shifted her chair loudly so that she was just a bit closer to Don.

Finally, she couldn't take it any longer.

"Charlie!" Her tone was a bit sharper than she had intended, but it had the desired effect – Charlie jumped with surprise.

"What? Did something happen? Is Don…?" Immediately, Charlie nearly fell of with ledge in an attempt to get to his older brother's side and Amita instantly regretted startling him, guilt creeping in at the desperate look on Charlie's face which only abated when he saw that Don was just as he had been for a while – still very still and still very comatose, yet alive. He turned owlish eyes on her. "What…?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said quickly, one hand tiredly pulling at her dark curls in a nervous fashion. "It's just, you were tapping your pencil…"

"Oh," Charlie said simply, looking down at the offending piece of wood and graphite still clutched in his hand, then down at Don. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"Don't worry about it," Amita said with a sigh. "What's wrong with you? You were a million miles away there for a few minutes," she said, truly concerned. Ever since Charlie had excitedly told her three days ago that Don was showing brain activity, she'd been expecting things to be better – and for the first two days, they had been. Everyone's moods had improved – Alan had even gone home for almost ten hours and Charlie had made one trip to Cal Sci and even done a short lecture. But as the days lengthened and Don didn't wake up, the relief they'd all felt seemed to fade.

The doctors were still highly optimistic. Each day, Don was showing more and more brain activity and his lung was healing nicely. Even the bruises were healing. There were still dark ugly spots indicating bullet strikes, but everything else was turning brilliant shades of yellow. Still, none of this seemed to ease the fact that Don still remained in a coma. Dr. Wild had tried to convince both Charlie and Alan that Don would come around eventually – and that there was no way to put an exact time or date on when he would come out of the coma, but both of them seemed hesitant to accept her words. As long as Don remained unconscious, neither would be convinced that the worst was truly over.

Even David and Megan seemed suspicious of the medical opinions they were given – David muttering about Don's stubborn personality and Megan staring at her boss with worried eyes. Amongst all of them, Colby seemed to be the one who believed what he was told. His unrelenting faith in his boss' will to recover in good time had inspired Amita, and she refused to be doubtful like the rest.

Charlie was looking at her hesitantly, obviously unsure if he should speak, then took the plunge. "I've been doing some research on coma patients – with this level of brain activity, Don should have been awake yesterday," he finally said.

Amita couldn't help it - she rolled her eyes. "And now you're a medical doctor, Charlie?"

Charlie bristled, his response expected, and suddenly Amita felt bad for provoking him. "Maybe not, but there are plenty of medical journals out there…"

"I know, I know," Amita said, trying to keep the strain she suddenly felt out of her voice. She'd actually read the same reports – not that she'd admit that to Charlie. "It's just…. Look, remember that conversation you had with Larry? About not being able to 'quantify' the human factor?" she asked him.

Surprised, he nodded. "Yes, of course I do – but that isn't what this is about – I'm not trying to figure out what a criminal…or anyone is trying to do, I'm trying to figure out why my brother is still unconscious."

Amita sighed. "What I'm trying to say is that you can't quantify the human body either, Charlie. You must know by now that people have lived in the most extreme circumstances and died in the most mundane. The brain is a huge unknown – we have no idea what's going on in there to keep Don inside," she said with a wave towards the bed where the object of their conversation was still convalescing. "Coma patients are some of the most unpredictable medical cases there are out there – I know you must have seen that in your research as well."

Charlie blinked at her, dark eyes unreadable, but then he was nodding, and rubbing his forehead with his good hand wearily.

"I did. I know. It's just so hard to believe – and I want Don back so badly. I mean, why doesn't he just wake up? Is he still too hurt? Is he angry that I let him down in the bank? Does he blame me for what happened? Worse, does he blame himself? Is he still in there because he's afraid to face me? I can see him doing that – I can see him thinking it was all his fault for taking me into that bank. He probably thinks he scarred me for life – he probably has no idea…." Charlie suddenly trailed off, and looked down at his arm, still in a sling. "Oh God…he might not even know that I'm not hurt!" The anguish in his voice was enough to make Amita want to cry.

Before she could stop him, he was clutching Don's hand.

"Donnie? Can you hear me? I'm right here, and I'm fine. I'm not hurt, ok? You saved me. You hear that? You saved me – so hurry up and wake up."

"Charlie?" Amita asked softly. "Just relax, ok? Don's going to be fine."

Dark eyes turned to face her and Charlie was nodding, woodenly and automatically. "I wish I could be as sure as you are."

Amita sighed softly. "Charlie, Don is the strongest person I know. I've seen him go to lengths most people wouldn't bother with just for the smallest things. I think we both know that all the things we imagine he does and has been through – the guns, the knives, the threats, the bad dreams… All those things we think about – well, like it or not, they're probably very real for Don – but just look at him! Think about how well adjusted and kind and generous he still is. Not everyone could face what he does everyday and still be a normal person. I figure if he can do that, then he can make it through this," she told Charlie with all the conviction she had.

Charlie watched her silently for a moment, then an unexpected grin tugged at his lips.

"Tell me again just how great Don is," he said with a chuckle, his mood instantly lightening. Amita felt heat creeping up her cheeks and she turned away from Charlie, standing up abruptly so her back was to him.

"Charlie, you know that's not what I meant… I wasn't trying to… You know I…"

"I know you think my big brother is hot," Charlie said, levity in his voice. Amita felt the blush creep higher.

"Charles Edward Eppes – you don't know anything," she said, turning on him, trying to keep her voice sounding offended, but Charlie just laughed at her and despite her discomfort at the direction their conversation was headed, Amita was glad he was no longer drowning in doubt.

"Come on Amita, you told me."

"I certainly never said the words 'your brother is hot,'" she huffed. "I believe what I said was that I really respected and liked your brother – maybe a little more than I should considering our relationship," she said, indicating herself and Charlie.

"And then, I said I already knew you liked Don and that I was ok with that," Charlie reminded her.

"Yes well, maybe you should mention that to Don," Amita responded snarkily and immediately wished she could pull the words back into her mouth. She hadn't meant to broach that subject, and certainly not here, now, in the hospital with Charlie's mental state a little shaky and the object of her affection lying in a coma. She slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes wide with remorse.

"Yeah, actually, maybe I should," Charlie said thoughtfully, his eyes gazing off, completely unaware of her reaction.

Amita gaped at him. "Charlie, I'm so sorry. This is not the time or place…"

Charlie looked up at her, surprise on his face. "It's ok Amita. I know I'm acting a little strange, but I'm not made of glass, I assure you. And, to be honest, I guess I've been wanting to have this conversation."

Amita was surprised. "Really? I mean, Charlie, you don't really have to say anything. What I said – about you saying something to Don – I mean, if Don isn't interested in me, well, he isn't interested," she said with a shrug.

Charlie snorted and leaned back in his chair, glancing at Don. "Not interested? You've got to be kidding me."

Amita gaped at him. "Well, I mean… Not to sound vain, I mean, I've seen him look my way… But he hasn't shown anything more than passing attraction…"

Charlie sighed, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. "I'm fairly certain that's my fault," he told her. "Don has a pretty strict code of ethics regarding stuff like this. To him, you're probably untouchable because of me."

Amita paused. She had known this. Don ran his life by a fairly strict code of personal do's and don'ts – a moral compass that guided him along. No doubt this situation did more than just hedge into gray areas. Considering the nature of Don and Charlie's sometimes fragile relationship, she wasn't surprised that Don wouldn't come near her. She didn't blame him – she didn't want to be the cause of any unrest between the two of them. However, after the night she and Charlie had talked and they'd both come to the conclusion that they were not in love, but that Amita was clearly interested in Don instead, Amita had hoped that Charlie would intercede on her behalf and give Don the green light.

Time had passed and Don still hadn't done much more than take her out for a cup of coffee after a particularly difficult case. The way he looked at her… Well, it clearly said she was still off limits, despite the fact that Charlie was seeing someone else. For a little while, Amita had been angry with Charlie. Why couldn't he just tell Don that it was ok to be interested in her? Then she began to worry that maybe Charlie had already told Don – and that the Federal Agent was actually not interested, so she'd left it at that.

Now Charlie was telling her that he had indeed never let Don know that it wouldn't be a problem.

"Can I ask why you haven't spoken to him about this?" she said, trying to keep her voice neutral, not wanting him to know she was upset. After all, she was sure she must have hurt him just a little bit when she'd admitted her feelings for Don. Even if they both recognized that they were wrong for each other, having her tell him that she preferred his brother must have been painful. She knew enough about their relationship to know that there was a healthy dose of sibling rivalry and that before, they'd clashed over the same woman. That was probably the same reason why Don was so reluctant to cross the invisible barriers he had erected regarding her.

Charlie was staring at her, looking a bit guilty.

"To be honest? I… I was a little jealous – which I know sounds crazy because we both felt the same way about the situation – about us. But, there's this uncontrollable, unquantifiable thing inside of me that still doesn't want Don to…have you."

Amita was surprised at his candid response, but she understood and found herself nodding. "I understand the primal need to one up each other is quite poignant in men," she supplied.

Charlie let out a sigh. "It's not just that, Amita. It's just that – for as long as I can remember Don has always been cool – has always been something to try to ascribe to. When we were kids… I wanted to do everything that Don did and have everything that he had. I was always following him around, trying to be him. I think it drove him absolutely crazy. Even now, knowing that I'm successful, well-known and even envied by others, there are still days that I wish I had what Don had – that I was a hero, not just a math professor. I know that probably sounds crazy, but sometimes I still feel like he always has everything I want – and that he's always better than me."

Amita was surprised. When they had dated and been a bit closer, he had occasionally confided his deep need to please his brother – but nothing like this.

"But Charlie…" she said, already prepared to tell him just how truly wonderful he was.

"No," he said, cutting her off. "I know what you're going to say – and I really appreciate it. I was just…trying to be honest with you. I have a jealousy issue where I don't want Don to be any happier than I am."

"Charlie," she said softly. "I thought you said that you didn't feel that way about me…"

"Oh!" he said, jumping to his feet. "I don't. I mean, I still think you're a wonderful person, and I still don't think that you and I are really meant to be together. It's just, I guess it bothers me a little that we didn't work out but that if you and Don do work out…then it just proves that I'm no good at normal things… Like dating beautiful women."

Amita chuckled. "Charlie, you aren't good at normal things! That's because you're so gifted in things that most people don't consider normal. You're mind is above what most people could ever dream of asking for. Every gift we are given requires a little sacrifice. So you don't act in a way society considers normal – so what? And you are capable of dating beautiful women – you and I just weren't meant to be. Besides, you are dating a beautiful woman! And I have news for you – Don isn't exactly what I would consider normal."

Charlie blinked at her. "Don is completely normal."

"Really? You think that giving up a promising career in baseball one day after you hit a double and joining the FBI on a snap decision the next day is normal? Do you think that living in an apartment where most of your life is in boxes is normal? Or that spending most of your downtime in your family home while still trying to pretend your completely independent is normal? How about working for six or seven days straight with little or no sleep? And, to top all of that off, do you think it's normal that he gets offended when you call him on any of that? I mean, Charlie, Don thinks that what he does is normal – how he lives is normal – but compare him to your father – or to anyone else you know that doesn't work in law enforcement and tell me that's normal."

Charlie was silent for a moment, absorbing her words, then he laughed. "You know what, you're right. I mean, I know all that about Don – that his job certainly passes the realm of normal, but now that you truly point out his habits…well, you're right. He's not run of the mill."

"And that's what makes you Eppes men all so interesting," Amita said, grinning back at him, happy to see him smiling.

Charlie chuckled. "Listen, I'm very glad we talked about this. I've been wanting to tell you that it's my fault that Don's kept his distance, but I wasn't sure how, and I haven't exactly been sure how to broach that subject with him either. Dad keeps telling me I have to do something – because you came into our lives for a reason, and he'd like to keep you around. Not to mention, of course, the never-ending need for grandchildren… So, don't say I didn't warn you – if you and Don date, Dad will be merciless…"

"I'll be merciless about what?" Alan asked, arriving with a tray of food, eyes darting between the two.

"Grandchildren," Charlie muttered.

"Grandchildren? Who's having grandchildren?" Alan asked, perking up, and Amita let out a soft whoosh of air. Charlie was right – but she thought if she could handle Alan's not so subtle badgering that at first she date Charlie, and then when realization had hit him, that she date Don, then she could handle the grandchild obsession. Alan was certainly perceptive. He'd seemed to know right away when she and Charlie had settled things and before she'd even really decided what to do about Don, Alan had been already pushing her in the direction of his older son. Amita would have loved to have made him happy right away, but Don was a tough cookie to crack.

"No one," Amita assured him with a friendly smile. "Let me help you with that," she said and Alan, ever the gentleman, refused, setting the tray down himself and passing out sandwiches.

"I'll tell you both something, Donnie better wake up soon or I'm going to die from this Hospital cafeteria food. After all these years, they couldn't put a Starbucks in or something?" Alan groused. "Do you think if I tell Donnie we're having brisket at home tonight, it'll bring him around?"

The all smiled and laughed. "It's worth a try," Charlie suggested.

Amita regarded them for a moment. Somehow, Charlie's spirits seemed a bit brighter – like maybe their talk had lifted something off his shoulders – and Alan seemed pleased to see Charlie smiling.

"This is all Don needs to wake up," she said softly. "You two."

Alan looked up from his egg salad sandwich, eyes a bit watery, but he was smiling. "She's right you know," Alan told Charlie.

"Almost," Charlie agreed. "But we're not the only ones he needs," he said and squeezed her hand – and while they sat there, they knew that everything was really going to be just fine.


	23. Chapter 23

Alan Eppes revelled in the quiet atmosphere that surrounded him. For the first time in a while, he was alone in Don's hospital room, and it was just him and his son. It was nice. Not nice of course, that Don was still unconscious, but nice to have a moment by himself with his beloved child.

Alan took that time to heart. He'd only been alone with Don for a few moments at a time since the horrible incident at the bank. Since then, there had been a constant rush of people in and out of the hospital room. Of course, that was to be expected, and Alan certainly didn't begrudge any one of his son's visitors their time. In fact, he was quite touched by the outpouring of support.

There had been numerous people from the Bureau – too many to count. Besides Don's team, which had become a fixture in the room whenever they weren't on duty, there had been a virtual parade of agents, some Alan recognized and some he didn't. They had all been exceptionally respectful and kind. Don's Rabbi had stopped by and Alan had found himself overwhelming pleased to see the man. They had talked for hours, and before he'd left, he'd said a prayer for Don. It left Alan feeling content and hopeful.

And of course Charlie, Amita, and Larry had been present much of the time.

But tonight, it was just Alan – and he was grateful for that.

Megan had insisted on taking everyone out to dinner, carefully excluding Alan from her invitation. For that, Alan was impressed and pleased. She had guilted Charlie and Amita into going with her, and had winked at him on the way out. As usual, she was perceptive and must have realized that Alan simply wanted some time alone with his eldest child.

When they had left, Alan had dimmed the lights and settled in next to Don, silence stretching out in a way that was comfortable. Alan was content to just be there with Don, and to know he was alive. He wanted Don awake more than anything, but had realized that he should simply be grateful for the fact that Don was still alive. It so easily could have gone the other way. Instead of sitting for hours in a hospital room, he could be boxing up personal belongings and arranging for a headstone. Alan would take the hospital any day.

Several hours passed while Alan sat there in the quiet. A nurse or two came and went, making their rounds, checking on Don, and all were wise enough not to disturb the Eppes patriarch. He smiled at them and they let him be. It was just another night, spent in the hospital.

Alan was just debating whether or not he should leave and head home for a shower and some sleep when Don's hand twitched. For a moment, Alan was certain that he'd imagined things, and he peered at his first born intently. A long minute passed, and when nothing happened, Alan leaned back in his seat, only to lean forward again when Don's left hand twitched again.

In a moment, Alan was on his feet, torn between calling for the nurses and staying there to make sure he hadn't lost his mind. Don had been as limp as a rag doll since he'd been in the hospital and hadn't moved at all. Common sense overcame his emotional need, and he hurried to call the night nurse.

"Ellie, call Dr. Wild. Don's moving his hand," he said, his voice far more animated than it had been for what felt like weeks. Without waiting for an answer, he raced back into the room, determined to see his son's hand move again, only to get a much bigger surprise.

Dark eyes blinked lazily in the almost non existent light in the room, and then turned in his direction when he arrived, stopping dead in his tracks.

"Donnie?" he gasped out. He could hardly believe his own eyes – could hardly believe that Don was awake.

The FBI agent who would always be Alan's little boy blinked at him again, slowly, but comprehendingly, and Alan found that he was holding his breath as the words "Brain Damage" raced through his mind.

"Dad?"

The word was whispered and hard to understand, but Alan reflected later that it may have been the most beautiful thing that Don had ever said.

"Yes…yes…" Alan said, and in a moment, he was at Don's side, clutching his uninjured hand, tears welling up in his eyes. "I am so happy to see you awake."

Don blinked up at him for another moment and Alan could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. A frown crept on to his face. "Charlie…got shot. I'm sorry."

Alan couldn't help but smile and he didn't know if he should laugh, scream or cry. The emotions overwhelming him were so heavy and intense, he thought his chest was going to burst. Then, tears were streaking down his face – he found himself unable to hold them back.

"That would be the first thing you would say," Alan heard himself saying through the tears, the grin still plastered on his face. "Charlie is fine," he said, making sure to emphasize the word 'fine' so that Donnie would actually believe him.

Don was still frowning. "I know," he said, his voice rough with disuse. "Heard him… But I'm sorry."

Alan didn't know why, but the predictability of Don's statement and the fact that somehow, in his coma, he'd heard Charlie – it all made Alan want to laugh – and not just laugh, but burst into hysterics. He was barely able to contain himself.

"It wasn't your fault," he said firmly. "And I don't want to hear another word about how he's your responsibility and you took him into the bank…and you should have known better and checked twice as many times as you did… I don't want to hear it Donnie. Charlie's alive – you jumped in front of a bullet for him – and you're alive…and that's all I need." The words came out in a tumble, and although Alan felt like he was yelling, they were barely a whisper – but loud enough for Don to hear.

Brown eyes drooped in understanding. "You been…practicing that speech?"

"Don't sass your father," Alan began to snap, but trailed off when Dr. Wild arrived, dressed in casual clothing as if she'd just been heading out of the hospital.

"Well, well… Your file said you had brown eyes – but now you've proved it!" she chortled, bustling over with a grin plastered on her face. "I've done it again – saved another law enforcement officer," she crowed, and Don looked skeptically at Alan. Alan was so giddy he didn't even scold his son for the inappropriate look.

"You see Doctor? He's awake…"

"Yes, Mr. Eppes – I see that. How are you feeling Agent Eppes?" Dr. Wild asked, growing more serious and more professional as she pulled out a pen light and waved it towards Don's eyes. Instantly, Don flinched away from the light and tried to raise his injured hand to shield his eyes, hissing when he realized it was basically mummified. "Easy there…" Dr. Wild suggested, gently pressing the hand back to the bed. "That's broken – but healing quite nicely," she added when she saw the worried look cross his good looking features.

"I'm…a little tired," Don said slowly, to answer her question, and Alan listened intently, soaking in the warm sound of his son's voice. "And my chest feels…tight," he said, and looked down for the first time.

Alan moved in close again and took Don's hand. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked cautiously and he could tell Dr. Wild was listening too. Alan knew it was a good sign that Don had been speaking normally – forming thoughts and sentences – but memory loss could be a sign of brain damage as well.

"Yes," Don said, his voice tense. "I took Charlie and Megan into the bank and it was a trap. The suspect…" Don trailed off, his eyes finding his father's, and instantly, Alan knew that his eldest sons' brain was just fine. There, in his dark eyes was the calculating FBI agent trying to figure out if his father knew exactly what had happened in the bank and if he needed to be shielded from the grim reality. Apparently, Don found that Alan already knew. "The suspect shot me in my tactical vest. Am I…alright?"

"Well, you did give us a little run for our money," Dr. Wild admitted as she checked Don's blood pressure and gauged his reaction time. "You've been unconscious for over a week. You still need one more round of surgery, but I think you're going to make a full recovery. You have your Kevlar vest to thank for that," she told him honestly.

Alan couldn't help but forget to breathe while she spoke to his son, and it was all too real just how bad this had been – but there Don was – alive, and even better – awake.

Don sighed softly. "I do feel like I've been shot a dozen times over," he admitted and then made eye contact with his father as if wanting to say "But I'm ok."

"Don't think you'll be going back to work any time soon," Dr. Wild said bossily, but with a smile. "You still need time to heal. I want to send you for another CAT scan, so don't go anywhere," she said, then turned to face Alan, grasping one of his hands. "He's going to be fine," she mouthed to the older man, who was touched by her sincerity. Then, she swept from the room to order a scan.

"Where's Charlie?" Don asked cautiously after a moment.

Instantly, Alan knew what he was asking. Had Charlie retreated to the basement? He could almost read Don's mind. Dr. Wild had told him he'd been unconscious for over a week and though she hadn't said it explicitly, she was pretty clear that he'd been in some serious trouble. Don was too intelligent to look past the fact that his family had probably been through hell and back. Alan couldn't blame him for wondering if Charlie had repeated what had happened when Margaret had been sick.

"He's at dinner – with your team and Amita," Alan assured him, sitting down as he noted just how tired Don looked. "I promise you, he's fine."

Don looked pleasantly surprised at the news and nodded just a little. "Good…was worried," he said, his voice slurring just a little.

"I knew you would be," Alan said, leaning forward and taking Don's hand again. "But we were all worried about you – everyone's been here – and Amita's hardly left your side," he said with a sly grin. Don's tired eyes widened a little in surprise, and his unnaturally pale face took on a hint of pink. "You should do something about that, you know. You'd have beautiful children – and I'm not getting any younger…" Alan said, about to launch into all the benefits of marrying the pretty young woman. Don just smiled at him hugely, looking almost silly, and his odd reaction stopped Alan's speech. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Don's eyes looked watery. "Nothing Dad… It's just, I was there in the bank, and I was wondering if I'd ever see you again…and I realized I would miss things like this – things like you wanting grandchildren and wanting Charlie and I to be happy… And that was the worst part besides not being able to protect Charlie."

Alan had been expecting Don to protest and ask him to leave the subject alone, but instead, he got the rare chance to see Don with his shields down. He squeezed Don's hand. "Well, I'm not going anywhere," he promised, and Don nodded, looking awkward at having just bared his soul. "But I still expect grandchildren," he added in an attempt to give Don a moment to get himself together – and it worked, just as Alan knew it was. The familiar eye roll came back.

Alan was just about to continue when they both heard quiet arguing in the hall. Don looked exhausted, but he turned his head a little, trying to listen. It was very quiet, but if they were both silent, they could hear the hushed argument.

"Charlie, I'm telling you right now that your Dad doesn't want to be bothered right now!" a feminine voice scolded, and they both recognized it as Amita.

"But he really shouldn't stay here all night – he needs to go home." The second voice was without a doubt Charlie.

"He's a grown man Charlie, I'm sure he can make that decision on his own."

"Are you and Megan both in a conspiracy to keep me away from Don?" Charlie bit back, though it was hard to tell if he was actually angry.

Alan gave Don an amused glance and winked at him, standing stiffly and heading for the door. He poked his head out and caught the two mathematicians mid argument.

"Excuse me, but if the two of you wouldn't mind, heated discussions aren't good for patient recovery," he said pointedly, trying to keep a straight face. They both stared at him for a moment, clearly confused, but Amita figured it out first and she let out a very un-lady like shriek and nearly knocked Charlie over on her way past Alan.

Charlie blinked in confusion, and then his eyes opened wide.

"Don's awake?"

"Yes Charlie, Donnie is awake," Alan responded, no longer able to keep the grin off his face and found his eyes damp again. Charlie gaped for a moment later, then a slow grin spread across his face and he rushed past Alan into the room, leaving the Eppes patriarch in the hall to gather himself and to finally allow himself the luxury of knowing that everything was going to be just fine.


	24. Chapter 24

Well…a long journey has finally come to an end. It's taken me almost four years to complete this story, but I'm glad I did. I hope you all enjoy its conclusion. Thanks to everyone who stuck with this story the whole way.

As always, your thoughts are welcomed and appreciated.

Lady Winter

* * *

Don wiggled a little, allowing his body to get sucked just a little more into the old worn couch in his father's living room. Or rather, he reflected, his brother's living room – it was still hard to remember that. He let out a contented sigh, thinking that if he just had a cold beer, life would be pretty great.

But, still on pain medication after surgery on his shoulder and to take the edge from his still knitting rib-cage, there would be no beer tonight.

Still, there was baseball, a home cooked meal, the scent of which was wafting out of the kitchen, making Don really hungry, and family. Oh, and Amita. Don couldn't help but smile at that part. Yes. Amita. And Amita was there with him. As his guest. He smiled again.

"What are you smiling at?" Charlie asked suspiciously from a few feet away in their Father's arm chair, with a stack of papers in his hand, pen poised over one, but he was examining Don critically.

Don rolled his eyes. "I'm thinking how grateful I am…for all of this," he said with a wave of his still mummified hand.

Charlie scrutinized him for a moment or two more, obviously trying to deduce if his older brother was being less than honest. Don stared him down.

Ever since he'd been released from the hospital, Don had been convalescing at Charlie's house – neither his brother, his father, his team or his doctor would hear of him returning to his own apartment. Don wondered why he even bothered paying rent on it anymore. Expectedly, he'd put up a fuss, mostly for show. It was true that he didn't want to be hovered over – never ever liked to be hovered over – after all, he was a fiercely independent adult man who survived very well on his own. But something inside him had welcomed the idea of spending time with his family – even if it meant being under their overprotective supervision.

Since arriving at the family homestead, both his father and Charlie had been nothing less than predictable. They had catered to his every need and been untrusting of his own reports on his physical condition. If he told them he was fine, they automatically believed he was lying and would give him the evil eye. They watched him like a hawk and had come to be unbelieving of anything that he said, expecting a lie or at least a half truth.

Hence the reason that Charlie was critically examining Don now.

Surprisingly enough, Don didn't care. In fact, it made him smile wider, which only prompted Charlie's suspicion to deepen. Don was quite enjoying giving his family a hard time, simply soaking in their love and affection. He wasn't sure if it was the drugs making him so amiable, the fact that he was now dating a beautiful woman he'd been pining after for some time, or the fact that he'd escaped a situation that could have very easily ended in death – for himself and for Charlie.

Normally, that last fact would have really bothered him – to the point where he would have seriously considered never again involving Charlie in a case. However, over the past few years, he'd learned that he couldn't control every situation and that Charlie had willingly gone into the bank. He was still upset about what had happened, and could admit to himself the few nightmares he'd had, but just the fact that Charlie was there in front of him, and that Charlie actually seemed mostly ok and stable after such a horrifying ordeal, steeled something inside of Don. He realized that he couldn't change the past, but instead would plan for the future. If that meant being more cautious and upsetting Charlie, but still keeping him on as a consultant, then so be it. Don couldn't waste time blaming himself – it wouldn't be productive for anyone in the long run.

So instead, he decided to languish in being waited on and enjoy tormenting Charlie.

"No, seriously Don…what are you grinning at?" Charlie demanded.

Don laughed outright, and Amita poked her head out of the kitchen to see what the two boys were doing. Her dark tresses hung around her face and Don couldn't help but think how beautiful she was.

"Everything ok in here?" she asked, pinning Don with a stare, knowing full well that he'd purposefully been trying to agitate Charlie.

"Charlie's just nervous because I'm happy," Don responded dismissively, offering her a charming smile. Her disapproving stare didn't stand a chance against that, and in moments she was smiling back at him bashfully, batting her eyes as if she was in high school all over again.

Charlie groaned. "You two are disgusting," he said and loudly shuffled his papers, muttering to himself, but neither believed for a moment that he was truly upset. After all, he'd been instrumental in getting Amita and Don there – together.

A few days after Don had awoken in the hospital, his strength growing every day, Charlie had sat down on the edge of his bed with a very serious look on his face.

"We need to talk Don," he had said, his voice grave. Don had inwardly groaned, afraid that the conversation was about to launch into something he didn't want to discuss – like a lecture from Charlie about how none of this was Don's fault, or how Don never should have thrown himself in front of that bullet. Don wasn't ready for that conversation – he wasn't sure he ever would be. How could you really look your brother in the eye and tell him you'd be more than willing to die for him and truly expect him to understand beyond reciprocating the feeling?

"Charlie…I'm a little tired," Don had responded, trying to dodge, letting his eyelids droop slightly lower even though he'd just woken up from one of the multiple naps he couldn't seem to stop himself from taking. His body seemed exhausted all the time.

"Stop trying to avoid talking to me," Charlie had demanded, suddenly, anger creeping into his voice. It was enough to make Don wince slightly and frown down at his bandaged hand apologetically.

"Charlie, I know what you're going to say – but no matter what, you can't convince me that I'm not responsible for you in situations like that…and I won't apologize for getting in the way of that bullet. I don't regret it and I'm not going to pretend I do…" he'd huffed out in a pre-planned way, just as he'd rehearsed it in his head.

Charlie had stared at him for a moment, and then smirked down at Don in a smugly superior way that Don was more used to seeing when Charlie was blatantly showing off how intelligent he was compared to other people.

"Well, we can talk about all that too if you want," he'd said, amusement heavy in his voice. "But I was going to talk about Amita."

Don couldn't help it. He had just sat there, gaping at Charlie.

"Amita?" he'd finally managed to say, not sure if he wanted to have this conversation either. He had never really come out and told Charlie that he really liked the pretty student, but Charlie wasn't stupid. Still, Don had done nothing, because Charlie hadn't given him permission, and as odd as that could sound to someone else, Don didn't want to threaten his sometimes precarious relationship with Charlie, even for a woman.

"Yes, Amita. You know her?" Charlie asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes slightly, but then softened his words with a sigh. "Listen, Don… I know that you've liked Amita for some time, and I also know that you haven't done anything about that because of me – and God knows – I really appreciate that. And let's be honest…we both know she likes you too…"

Here, Don recalled his eyes widening in surprise. "What?" he couldn't help but ask. Sure, he'd seen Amita check him out, and she was always eager to talk, and he had been sure she flirted with him as often as she could, but still, she had done absolutely nothing to suggest she was serious in any way about liking him.

Again, Charlie rolled his eyes, this time over exaggerating the movement. "Come on Don…"

"No, really Charlie, I didn't… Look, I didn't…I don't want to step on any toes…" he tried to explain.

"That's just it," Charlie had said, interrupting him, but not angrily. "You won't be. I mean, before…yes, I think I would have felt that way. But not now. I get it. And I really appreciate the respect you showed me by not…moving in. But she does like you – a lot – and she's just waiting for you to make a move. Don't let her get away Don. She's a wonderful person and…I think the two of you would be really great for each other."

Don had stared at Charlie in shock and gratitude. He knew it couldn't have been easy for his little brother to say those words, even if he had moved on from Amita.

"Charlie…I don't know what to say. Thank you," he'd finally decided on.

Charlie had waved his hand dismissively. "Beside, then Dad will torment you and not me," he'd said with a sly grin.

So that had brought Don to the realization that he was now free to pursue Amita – and as Charlie had suggested, he didn't wait long. It took some time before she was alone with him in the hospital room before Don finally had the chance.

He'd grinned up at her when she'd pulled a contraband muffin out of her messenger bag and presented it to him with a flourish.

"You know how to make a man happy," he'd told her, and she'd blushed in surprise.

"Well, think of it as my way of supporting the federal government," she said with a grin. "We can't have all our top agents laid up in the hospital…starving to death without muffins," she'd joked.

Don was about to respond with a witty reply when he decided not to play games, so he'd snagged her hand, catching her by surprise, and he'd caught her sharp intake of breath that in no way seemed alarmed.

"I want to take you out to dinner," he'd told her, looking her deep in the eyes. "A really nice restaurant, downtown – and I'll wear a nice suit and you'll be as beautiful as you always are," he said, drawing a breath as he saw her eyes widen into deep, dark pools. "And I want to kiss you goodnight and take you out on dates until you decide you want to date me – and just me," he confessed, his voice soft.

Amita had sat there, in stunned silence, before her alluring lips had quirked into a smile. "I'm not a criminal to be pursued, Agent Eppes," she said, leaning forward just a little. "You don't have to woo me, though I can't say I'd mind," she added at what he knew must have been a slightly crestfallen look. "If you want to date me Don – just ask."

And he had. Just in time for his father to walk in, clapping and smiling exuberantly, too happy to even bother apologizing for his blatant eavesdropping, something he surely would have scolded Don or Charlie for if they'd been the offending party.

"Finally – you waste too much time with things Don, though, I have to admit that was a nice speech. I think I won your mother over that way – with my speeches. You must get that from me," he'd crowed, a look of satisfaction on his face, and Don would have been mortified if Amita hadn't been sitting there, smiling at him, never breaking eye contact.

"Don't discourage him, Mr. Eppes. I like the speeches," she'd said, unable to stop smiling.

And that had brought them to where they were now – a happy little family apparently.

Not that Charlie was all that happy.

"Charlie, you should be relieved that Don's happy and not brooding," their father called from over Amita's shoulder.

"Yeah," Don had echoed.

"Be nice to your brother, Don," Amita had said disapprovingly, then, with a forgiving smile, she disappeared back into the kitchen. Don couldn't help but smile after her.

"That's what I'm smiling about Charlie," he said, still watching the door.

Charlie added another mock groan. "Seriously Don – the two of you…" Don thought his brother was about to launch into a tirade about how they should reign it in. "The two of you are really great together," Charlie supplied, catching Don off guard, and Don's eyes darted to his curly-haired younger brother. "It's really great to see you happy like this."

Now it was Don's turn to roll his eyes, but he only did it half-heartedly and finally added, "Thanks Charlie."

Charlie bobbed his head, and went back to his papers, and Don had turned his attention back to the game on TV, but that didn't last long.

"Don…" Charlie said hesitantly, and Don found himself turning back to look at his brother. "I know you said you didn't want to talk about anything…" he started and Don stiffened, wincing instantly when the action caused his chest to contract painfully and his immobilized shoulder to remind him it was still healing. "We don't have to talk about all of it," Charlie said quickly, seeing Don's reaction. "But I can't let it go without at least saying thanks." It all came out in a rush of words.

Don blinked slowly at Charlie, not quite expecting what the math genius had said.

"Charlie, aren't you at least a little bit mad at me for putting you in that position? With that woman forcing you to do something while she…shot me?" he said, having to force the words out.

Charlie stared at him for a long moment before answering.

"Yeah, I guess if I'm honest, I was a little mad. I mean…it was horrible standing there and feeling so helpless while she pointed that gun at you… But I wasn't mad at you Don. I was mad at her – at the situation. You're an exemplary FBI agent Don – but you're still human. No one knew what was going to happen." Charlie stopped speaking uncertainly.

Don sighed. "That doesn't keep me from wishing that I was able to anticipate these things – especially when you're involved. You have to understand that I can't stand putting you in danger –it's the worst feeling in the world," Don confessed quietly, thinking that a few short years ago, he never would have shared feelings like that with Charlie.

"I hope you understand that I feel the same way," Charlie said, looking Don in the eyes and they both automatically thought about the Charm School Boys.

Don shook his head a little. "I'm sorry Charlie," he said humbly. "I never wanted you to have to…face what you did in the bank."

"As terrifying as it was, I think it's taught me a little bit more about you – about what you have to do every day – the things you go through…" Charlie trailed off, unable to keep the bit of hero-worship and respect out of his voice, and he flushed a little. "Sometimes, I think I'm just a boring math professor – but helping you with cases, I feel like I'm really doing something, and even though I know I get to contribute to helping and even saving lives sometimes…it's you who does all the heroic stuff…"

Don snorted a little and tried to smile. "It doesn't always feel heroic Charlie."

"I know that now," Charlie admitted. "All I felt was fear and frustration," he shared, thinking back to how the numbers just didn't want to come. "You know, it was strange. When mom was sick, all I could see was numbers. I couldn't get them down fast enough. It was like I was going to have a breakthrough every moment. I…didn't want to disengage, but I couldn't stop them. But there – in the bank – I couldn't see them when I needed them," he said, frustration creeping into his voice. "I needed those numbers, and it was like they were invisible…"

Don moved, swinging his legs off the couch as carefully as he could, ignoring the protest in his upper body. The doctor had told him limited movement and only necessary walking, but he leaned forward, wrapping his right arm around his chest to support it, and reached out with his left hand - his good hand – to squeeze Charlie's arm, grateful that he was close enough.

"It doesn't matter now, ok? You did it – and you were brilliant," he said, and he meant it. "If I'd know you were going to try to double cross them…I probably would have killed you," he said good-naturedly. "But you did good Charlie. Really good."

"And then you did something stupid," Charlie said pointedly, but his voice held no anger or disappointment. "I know you would do it again, but I… I doubt I'll ever forget you lying there on the ground, bleeding out…" Charlie's voice choked up.

Don sighed. "That's what older brothers are for," he said simply, knowing that further explanation would get them nowhere. Charlie knew that Don was an FBI agent and that it was more than a job – it was a lifestyle for Don. It was who Don was down to the core. Deep down, they both knew that nothing would have kept Don from jumping in front of that bullet.

"I just wanted to say thanks," Charlie said, his eyes a little wet with tears that he managed to hold back. "For saving my life – and for staying as strong as you did in the bank."

Don gave his brother a reassuring smile. "I owe you my life Charlie. More than once. And it was you who stayed strong in the bank," he said and the two brothers locked gazes, volumes of understanding passing between the two of them.

Despite how horrible the situation had been – despite being forced to basically switch roles – they had come out of if stronger and better than ever.

"What are you two whispering about?" their father said, appearing suddenly in their midst. He had obviously taken a detour on his way to the dining room table, because a steaming platter with a delicious smelling brisket was clasped in his pot-holder clad hands. "And Don, the doctor specifically told you not to sit like that."

"How hungry we are," Don responded automatically, smiling up at his father and ignoring his second statement.

Their father regarded them for a moment. "Charlie, can you help Amita bring out the rest of the food?" the patriarch asked, deciding scolding Don at that moment would do no good and that neither boy was going to admit whatever it was that they were talking about. Don had a feeling that the wise older man knew that they were making peace anyway and didn't really need the details. Don couldn't help but marvel at how his father always seemed to have every situation in hand.

Charlie did as he was asked, getting up to go into the kitchen.

After he was gone, Alan looked down at Don. "You two ok?"

Don smiled at him, unable to fight the feelings of absolute adoration he had for his father. "Yeah Dad, we're good. And I mean that," he added. Alan only studied him for a quick moment before smiling at him.

"Don't even think about getting up off that couch until someone comes to help you," he said in way of response, and his smile disappeared as he gave Don his most threatening look. "And I mean that Donald," he said firmly.

Don couldn't help but roll his eyes, but he also couldn't hold back the grin. "Yes, sir."

Satisfied, Alan moved off to the dining room and Charlie and Amita hustled in and out of the kitchen. Don leaned back, his ribs aching, but he refused to be unhappy. Everything seemed better – everything seemed ok. It was a good feeling. He knew that eventually, his contentedness at being hovered over would fade and he would be itching to get back to work, but for now, he would enjoy the respite and take stock of all of the good things in his life.

Finally, Amita came to get him, helping him up in a way that showed just how genuinely she cared for him. She didn't say a word when he grunted slightly in pain, she just squeezed his good hand tightly and let him lean on her as much as he would allow himself too. The trip to the table wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, and he stole a brief kiss before she took her seat. Charlie sat across from him, and Alan sat at the head of the table, and they all smiled at each other over the steaming dishes of food.

"Let's pray," Alan suggested. "I just want to say thank you, for all of this," he said with a wave, indicating everything, but his eyes stuck on Don. It was clear he wanted to say thank you that Don was still there, with them, after everything.

There was a murmur of agreement from all three of them and Alan smiled as they all grasped hands.

There, in that moment, Don didn't think he could ever be more content. The love of his family was like the fury of the wind – unstoppable.

_Fin._


End file.
